THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 


.  W  CALIF.  UBRABY.  tO9  ANGBLB9 


THE 

JOYFUL    YEARS 

A  Novel 


BY 

F.  T.  WAWN 


"The  joyful  years  are  those  when  you  are 
finding  yourselves,  children." 

— SHAUN  JAMES 


NEW    YORK 

E.  P.  DUTTON    tf    CO. 

681    FIFTH    AVENUE 


COPYRIGHT,  1917, 
BT  E.  P.  DUTTON  &  CO. 


Printed  fa  the  dtrfted  State  s  of  Hmerica 


TO 

MY  MOTHER 


2133374 


CONTENTS 

PART   ONE 

PAGE 

THE  WINGS  OF  YOUTH 3 

PART  TWO 
TRANSFORMATION  233 


vii 


PART  ONE 
THE  WINGS  OF  YOUTH 


PART  ONE 
THE  WINGS  OF  YOUTH 


'  Love  is  the  wings  of  youth,  on  which  it  mounts  skywards  .  .  . ' 

SHAUN  JAMES. 


AT  four  o'clock  on  a  windy  May  afternoon  of  the  year 
1912  Shaun  James  and  Cynthia  Rosemary  Bremner 
were  departing  from  the  National  Portrait  Gallery  with- 
out regret  in  search  of  tea.  Shaun  was  jaunty  and 
shabby,  and  walked  in  front;  Cynthia,  bright-eyed,  fol- 
lowed respectfully  behind.  She  was  young,  she  was 
beautiful,  with  a  pretty  look  of  dignity;  also  she  had 
the  unmistakable  air  of  a  girl  accustomed  to  be  waited 
upon,  so  one  of  the  attendants  nudged  the  other,  and 
pointing  to  Shaun  said,  "  'E  must  be  somebody!"  to 
which  his  more  experienced  comrade  replied, ' '  'E  may. ' ' 
Shaun  was  depressed,  because  he  had  intended  to  talk  to 
his  chum  of  friendship  and  how  easily  it  may  change 
into  a  warmer  affection,  and  the  sight  of  such  a  num- 
ber of  bad  pictures  had  deprived  him  of  power  and 
eloquence.  He  was  repeating  mentally :  "  I  'm  forty,  and 
I  look  it.  I  get  good  reviews  and  bad  sales.  I  had 
an  unhappy  childhood,  oh  lor' — men  who've  been  un- 
happy as  children  never  become  cheerful  companions. 
And  she's  only  twenty-one  after  all!  In  spite  of  the 
fact  that  I've  taught  her  to  think  and  to  begin  to 
appreciate  beauty,  it  still  isn't  impossible  that  she 
should  marry  into  her  own  class.  You  don't  want  to 
spoil  her  happiness,  Shaun!  She's  your  own  pal, 
Shaun !  She  doesn  't  love  you  that  way,  however  much 
you  may  hope  and  pretend.  .  .  .  Although  there  may 

3 


4  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

come  a  chance  at  dinner  to-night.  .  .  .  But  she's  such 
a  perfect  little  chum ! ' ' 

The  radiant  pal,  joyous  at  having  still  an  hour  of 
holiday  to  look  forward  to  before  the  usual  appoint- 
ment at  Liberty's  with  her  mother,  which  although 
pleasant  enough  in  itself  had  become  heavily  monotonous 
from  force  of  repetition,  stood  by  the  side  of  Mr.  James 
upon  the  outer  step  (overtopping  him  by  an  inch), 
turned  starry  grey  eyes  to  his  and  said  gracefully, 
' '  Thank  you  for  a  lovely  afternoon.  Please  let  me  pay 
for  tea  this  time,  Shaun."  Several  taxi-drivers  pulled 
up  at  the  sight  of  her :  Shaun,  noticing  them,  moved  off 
the  step  to  the  pavement  and  started  down  the  slope 
towards  Trafalgar  Square. 

He  was  able  to  remind  himself  once  more  of  his  age, 
and  of  greater  reasons  for  self-restraint,  to  say  aloud, 
"Yes,  thank  you,  dear,"  and  to  invent  a  fairy-story  of 
old  St.  Martin's  to  tell  her  during  tea,  all  as  the  last 
stroke  of  four  chimed  from  the  slender  steeple. 


Peter  Middleton  was  to  dine  with  the  Bremners  that 
night,  and  his  work,  which  consisted  just  then  of 
slipping  forms  into  envelopes,  comparing  the  names 
upon  them  as  he  did  so,  was  suffering  greatly  in  con- 
sequence. Peter  was  distracted.  The  prospect  of  din- 
ing in  Portman  Square  with  strangers  filled  him  with 
excitement  and  nervousness ;  months  afterwards  he  had 
a  painful  interview  with  that  high  official,  Laurence 
Man,  because  of  mistakes  made  before  the  Bremners' 
dinner.  Laurence  himself  never  made  mistakes,  other- 
wise he  would  not  have  reached  at  the  juvenile  age  of 
thirty-nine  the  exalted  position  that  he  occupied.  And 
he  had  an  excuse  for  them  which  Peter  did  not  possess, 
for  he  was  head  over  ears  in  love  with  the  daughter 
of  Sir  Everard  and  Lady  Bremner;  in  spite  of  which 
he  was  signing  documents  with  a  steady  hand,  undis- 
turbed by  the  prospect  of  seeing  Rosemary  in  a  few 
hours.  Lady  Bremner  was  Laurence's  ally,  so  he  called 
the  young  lady  by  the  name  that  Lady  Bremner  pre- 


THE  WINGS  OF  YOUTH  5 

ferred — it  was  characteristic  of  him.  He  was  unmoved, 
moreover,  by  the  thought  of  the  obnoxious  scribbler 
James,  who  was  also  to  be  present.  Dangerous  indi- 
vidual though  the  man  was,  as  was  to  be  seen  by  Rose- 
mary's  holding  to  his  friendship  against  her  people's 
expressed  wishes,  Laurence  could  not  concern  himself 
greatly  about  a  novelist,  poor  as  a  church  (or  any 
other  kind  of)  mouse  and  therefore  unlikely  to  attract 
a  girl  in  the  way  of  marriage.  Besides  the  fellow  was 
a  widower — girls  don't  care  for  widowers. 

Laurence  was  furiously  jealous  when  in  the  presence 
of  his  beloved,  but  in  her  absence  intellect  ruled  su- 
preme; he  was  not  emotionally  imaginative.  Four 
o'clock  struck,  and  he  was  able  to  dip  his  fine-pointed 
pen  into  the  inkpot  with  an  easy  mind,  ignorant  of  the 
identity  of  Peter  except  as  a  junior  clerk  in  the  service 
of  the  Great  Company,  a  potential  maker  of  mistakes, 
and  happily  unaware  that  he  was  to  see  such  an  in- 
significant person  at  the  Bremners'. 

By  four  o'clock  Peter  had  satisfied  himself  that  he 
remembered  meeting  a  little  girl  much  younger  than 
himself  on  the  solitary  occasion  when  his  father  had 
taken  him  to  visit  Sir  Everard  Bremner.  The  child  had 
had  fair  hair  and  was  dressed  in  white  with  short  socks ; 
she  was  called  "Polly,"  a  nice  kid,  who  wanted  to  play 
cricket  when  she  grew  up.  She  must  be  grown  up  now, 
as  he  himself  had  reached  the  advanced  age  of  twenty- 
four.  Peter  wondered  whether  he  would  fall  in  love 
with  her,  and  expected  that  he  should,  if  she  were  pretty 
and  not  too  "rough  on  a  man."  He  might  even  get  to 
know  her  well  supposing  the  parents  weren't  altogether 
bored  with  him,  which  was  what  he  expected  must 
happen,  seeing  that  he  had  never  been  to  a  dinner-party 
before.  It  was  awfully  decent  of  them  to  ask  him.  .  .  . 

How  lonely  he  had  been  since  his  father  died !  Aunt 
May  had  pitchforked  him  into  this  awful  hole  to  earn 
his  living — well,  he  supposed  she  couldn't  do  better,  as 
his  father's  pension  had  died  with  him.  .  .  .  Major  Mid- 
dleton's  son,  intended  for  the  army  .  .  .  And  now  he 
was  a  clerk,  the  companion  of  fellows  he  hated.  Why, 


6  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

look  at  that  animal,  Blotter,  over  there,  shirking  his 
work  and  pretending  to  be  ever  so  busy — no,  he  wasn't 
— Gad,  he  was  putting  it  away! 

With  untactful  promptitude  Peter,  who  in  his  dreams 
had  been  unaware  of  the  progress  of  the  minute-hand, 
hurled  his  envelopes  into  a  drawer,  rushed  for  his  hat 
and  coat  and  fled  from  the  building. 


II 

LADY  BREMNER  was  accustomed  to  consider  her  husband 
before  her  children,  to  regard  them  through  his  eyes, 
and  to  treat  them  as  she  thought  he  would  do  in  her 
place.  Sir  Everard  was  ignorant  of  this,  and  Cynthia 
suffered  thereby.  Her  father's  heart  belonged  to  his 
wife,  his  intellect  was  devoted  to  the  affairs  of  the 
Colonial  Office,  which  he  had  served  for  thirty  years. 
He  believed  that  Cynthia's  confidence  was  given  to  her 
mother  and  that  the  two  women  were  leading  a  satis- 
fying feminine  life  together  in  the  region  of  teas,  shop- 
ping, and  dances.  It  pleased  him  to  keep  her  a  child 
and  to  behave  to  her  as  though  she  were  seventeen  in- 
stead of  being,  as  she  was,  at  the  restless  and  thought- 
ful age  of  twenty-one.  And  Lady  Bremner,  imitating 
him,  had  lost  the  girl's  confidence  already. 

The  trio  appeared  to  form  a  devoted  and  united 
family,  while,  as  is  the  case  in  so  many  homes  to-day, 
they  were  moving  towards  an  inevitable  clash  of  tem- 
peraments. Cynthia's  fate  pressed  the  more  hardly 
upon  her  because  her  only  brother  Alan  had  always 
by  his  father's  wish  enjoyed  the  fullest  liberty  of 
thought  and  action;  he  was  now  in  chambers,  inde- 
pendent of  Portman  Square,  with  an  allowance  to  sup- 
plement the  income  which  he  drew  as  a  clerk  in  the 
Foreign  Office,  while  Cynthia  herself  had  to  ask  her 
mother  for  change  every  time  she  went  out,  as  she  had 
neither  pocket-money  nor  dress  allowance  from  which 
to  pay  her  cab-fares. 

Amongst  other  preferences,  Sir  Everard  liked  to  see 
the  hair  of  his  womenfolk  smartly  arranged,  and  their 
clothes  what  he  would  have  called  "neat,"  in  other 
words  expensively  simple,  which  was  the  reason  why 
Cynthia,  who  shared  a  maid  with  her  mother,  was 

7 


8  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

dressed  and  finished  and  sitting  alone  in  her  room  three- 
quarters  of  an  hour  before  the  time  for  dinner.  He 
praised  that  appearance  of  finish,  that  almost  varnished 
air  of  smartness,  which  a  good  maid,  and  only  a  good 
maid,  can  give  to  the  attire  of  a  young  girl.  This  was 
illogical  and  conflicted  with  his  general  desire  to  keep 
his  'Polly'  the  little  child  he  loved  to  remember  her; 
still,  he  like  it,  and  Lady  Bremner  insisted  upon  regard- 
ing his  wish  as  'Polly's'  law.  She.  would  loyally  have 
called  the  girl  by  the  pet  name  she  disliked,  had  she 
not  felt  that  Sir  Everard  preferred  to  keep  it  for  his 
own  use,  liking  to  hear  his  tall  and  beautiful  daughter 
addressed  as  'Rosemary'  by  his  wife  and  son,  while 
not  objecting  to  the  occasional  'Cynthia'  that  the 
picturesque  Shaun  James  let  drop  in  public. 

' '  Why  do  you  call  him  '  picturesque, '  Daddy  ? ' '  asked 
Cynthia  once,  rather  rebelliously. 

"Because  he  is,"  replied  Daddy.  "I  do  not  say  he 
is  not  also  clever!"  It  had  not  occurred  to  the  girl 
hitherto  to  observe  her  friend  from  the  point  of  view 
of  decorativeness. 

Now  she  was  considering  him  again,  seated  in  a  room 
which  was  coloured  white  and  blue  relieved  by  the  palest 
gold,  a  nest  of  flowered  chintzes  and  delicate  gold  case- 
ment hangings;  where  Cherries  and  My  First  Sermon 
(early  Cynthia),  Burne- Jones  reproductions  and  Alpine 
photographs  (middle  or  school  period),  and,  greatly 
daring,  Eve  and  A  Wounded  Amazon  of  the  present 
Shaun  James  era,  hung  side  by  side  upon  the  walls. 
Shaun  would  have  made  ruthless  eliminations  and  ob- 
tained clearer  space  for  the  pictures  that  remained, 
but  Cynthia  had  not  yet  risen  to  this  height  of  artistic 
perfection.  She  added  to  her  favourites  and  was  never 
unfaithful  to  an  old  friend. 

A  bright  fire  crackled  on  the  hearth,  the  electric  light 
was  white  and  searching — also  trying  to  the  eyes  and 
complexion,  a  matter  for  which  Cynthia's  youth  cared 
little.  She  adorned  a  comfortable  chair;  and  the  maid, 
busied  with  Lady  Bremner,  was  certain  not  to  return. 
Cynthia  was  alone  with  her  thoughts. 


THE  WINGS  OF  YOUTH  9 

Yes,  Shaun  was  really  nice-looking,  in  spite  of  his 
irregular  features,  because  he  looked  what  he  was.  One 
could  see  he  had  been  a  journalist  and  had  given  it  up 
to  write  beautiful  prose.  His  face  was  very  clever,  and 
there  was  something  more  than  clever  about  it,  some- 
thing that  had  developed.  He  was  obviously  an  artist, 
but  also  not  a  poet.  His  eyes  looked  into  one,  and  not 
upon  one,  so  he  could  not  be  a  painter  or  a  sculptor, 
and  they  were  kind  eyes.  He  so  clearly  'understood' 
that  it  was  very  sure  he  couldn't  be  a  musician.  .  .  . 

These  impressions  followed  instantaneously  upon  each 
other  in  Cynthia's  mind,  without  clothing  themselves 
in  words.  They  would  in  all  probability  have  evaded 
her,  had  she  tried  to  speak  them  aloud.  She  was  quick 
of  understanding,  but  not  very  fluent  in  expressing 
ideas  in  language,  although  she  talked  easily  of  facts 
and  opinions ;  and  this  kept  her  free  from  conceit,  mak- 
ing her  a  sympathetic  listener  to  a  clever  man.  Sir 
Everard  had  formed  high  hopes  of  her  as  a  child,  es- 
pecially in  the  direction  of  mathematics,  his  favourite 
study,  but  an  illness  having  interrupted  her  education 
at  a  critical  age  she  had  lost  ground  which  had  never 
been  picked  up.  The  greater  part  of  her  intellectual 
development  she  owed  to  Shaun. 

Being  a  girl  of  striking  good  looks,  who  had  already 
received  a  number  of  proposals,  much  to  her  distress 
and  embarrassment,  Cynthia  of  course  was  conscious 
that  Shaun  was  beginning  to  be  in  love  with  her. 
Laurence  Man  she  did  not  like  and  dismissed  him  there- 
fore from  her  thoughts.  Peter  she  remembered  only  as 
a  shy  little  boy  who  had  failed  to  respond  when  a  shy 
little  girl  tried  to  make  friends  with  him.  His  sad, 
elderly,  shabby  father  was  dead  now,  and  Daddy  had 
cried  out  at  the  breakfast  table,  ' '  My  God !  Emmeline, 
poor  Middleton's  gone  at  last,"  when  he  read  the  an- 
nouncement in  The  Morning  Post.  That  was  years  ago, 
but  she  still  had  the  clearest  recollection  of  her  mother 's 
face  of  horror,  which  was  not  for  Major  Middleton.  She 
wondered,  with  some  bitterness,  why  Daddy  had  not 
looked  up  his  old  friend 's  son  before ;  being  accustomed 


10  THE  JOYFUL  YEAES 

to  set  friendship  on  a  higher  plane  than  love,  which 
she  considered  a  somewhat  selfish  emotion.  She  sup- 
posed Daddy  thought  he  had  not  time,  as  Major  Mid- 
dleton's  death  had  happened  just  before  he  was  given 
his  C.M.G.,  when  he  was  so  frightfully  busy.  Why, 
that  boy  must  be  twenty-four,  only  two  years  younger 
than  Alan.  She  hoped  he  would  not  still  be  shy,  for 
she  would  probably  have  to  go  in  with  him  if  Mummy 
did  not  give  her  Mr.  Man.  She  was  quite  sure  that  if 
Mr.  Man  were  an  author — which  he  was  neither  clever 
nor  nice  enough  to  be — he  would  not  value  her  opinion 
of  his  work  as  Shaun  did,  although  the  dear  had  such 
a  fearful  lot  of  trouble  to  extract  it  from  her  stupid 
head ! 

Francis  Thompson's  Poems,  The  Crock  of  Gold,  and 
Emma  lay  on  the  dressing-table,  equally  beloved.  Cyn- 
thia reached  out  a  hand  to  take  one,  but  they  made 
her  think  of  Shaun  whom  she  wished  to  forget,  and  she 
selected  the  box  of  chocolates  instead.  There  were  three 
coffee  creams  left;  and  she  disposed  of  them  in  the 
twink  of  a  dimple,  as  Shaun  would  say.  Bother  Shaun ! 
There  he  was  again.  But  she  could  not  help  liking  him 
to  think  her  beautiful,  she  honestly  couldn't.  She 
simply  loved  it!  Was  it  because  of  his  cultured  mind, 
his  artistry,  his  knowing  about  books?  Acting  on  an 
impulse  she  sprang  to  her  feet  and  ran  to  the  cheval- 
glass  with  a  quick  young  grace  that  seemed  to  fill  the 
room  with  sudden  beauty  of  movement;  and  there,  tak- 
ing an  end  of  her  scarf  in  either  hand,  letting  it  fall 
from  her  shoulders,  she  looked  hard  at  her  reflection,  her 
cheeks  pink,  her  eyes  a  woman's. 

She  saw  a  dignified,  slender  girl  in  a  dress  of  filmy 
green ;  a  girl  with  heaps  of  chestnut  fair  hair,  grey  eyes, 
and  a  very  direct  inquiring  gaze.  She  was  willowy  and 
strong,  her  neck  was  milk-white,  her  cheeks  daintily 
flushed,  and  Cynthia  could  not  help  liking  her!  The 
dress  she  recognised  as  a  compromise  between  ancient 
Greece  and  modern  Paris:  at  the  time  of  choice  she 
would  have  liked  it  more  Greek,  carried  away  intel- 
lectually as  she  was  by  the  classical  Shaun,  but  now  she 

^^ 


THE  WINGS  OF  YOUTH  11 

could  not  help  being  glad  that  her  mother  had  inter- 
posed. Lady  Bremner's  ladylike  taste  was  conspicuous 
in  the  result.  Cynthia  gave  it  its  full  due,  admitting 
frankly  to  herself  that  neither  she  nor  the  dressmaker 
could  have  decided  so  well  alone.  She  was  feminine 
enough  to  settle  that  the  colour  of  the  material  suited 
her  complexion  before  regarding  the  general  effect,  but 
it  was  characteristic  of  Shaun's  influence  that  she  did 
not  confine  herself,  as  most  women  do,  to  the  criticism 
of  details. 

"The  dear  thing  is  nice,"  she  thought.  "It's  sweet! 
And  it  is  right  artistically,  for  I'm  not  in  the  least  the 
classic  type,  I'm  too  English-looking!"  She  was  ex- 
amining her  face,  and  not  the  lines  of  her  graceful 
figure.  "I'm  glad  my  eyelashes  are  long.  I  like  my 
mouth,  and  my  cheeks  are  prettily  curved,  and  I  hold 
myself  well.  I  think  the  nose  would  be  almost  better 
snub  instead  of  straight,  as  my  eyes  are  so  wide  apart, 
but  that's  a  matter  of  taste,  and  anyway  my  upper  lip 
is  short.  I  certainly  look  bright  and  wide-awake;  no 
one  would  call  me  a  sleepy  person.  All  the  same  if 
I  am  beautiful,  which  Shaun  said  outright  on  Tuesday, 
and  he  does  know,  which  the  rest  who've  said  it  don't — 
besides,  they've  been  more  prejudiced  still — it  must  be 
because  of  my  complexion  or  my  eyes !  Cynthia,  you  're 
all  eyes,  and  they're  dancing.  Don't  be  a  vain 
idiot!  .  .  . 

"Those  sleeves  are  pretty,  just  caught  above  the  el- 
bow and  open  above  to  the  shoulders,  and  I  like  the 
chiffon  bow  on  one  shoulder.  My  hips  are  slender 
enough  to  be  classical,  I  think,  as  my  shoulders  are  fairly 
broad.  Oh,  arms,  you  really  are  beautiful,  and  one 
can't  help  seeing  you  through  those  very  open  sleeves 
that  aren't  sleeves  at  all — I  almost  wish  I'd  had  the 
fuller  ones!  Neck  and  shoulders  are  nice  too,  but  I 
can't  be  as  sure  they're  right  as  I  am  of  the  arms  and 
hands.  That's  a  dimple  of  vanity,  Cynthia.  Come  away 
from  the  glass." 

But  the  mirror  had  given  her  a  thrill  of  delicate 
excitement  that  pulsed  through  mind  and  body  alike, 


12  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

and  after  that  she  could  not  compose  herself.  So  she 
went  down  early  to  the  drawing-room,  where  she  found 
a  nice-looking,  brown-haired  boy  standing  awkwardly 
in  front  of  the  fire.  At  the  sight  of  her  he  seemed 
half  unhappy,  half  elated, — she  mistook  the  admiration 
in  his  eyes  for  pleasure  at  having  somebody  to  talk  to. 
As  she  advanced  with  her  charmingly  youthful  air  of 
self-possession  she  noticed  how  sensitive  was  his  face. 
Peter  and  Cynthia  took  frank  stock  of  each  other  in 
this  instant  of  recognition.  If  the  girl  was  pleased  with 
the  man's  appearance,  Peter  was  equally  impressed  by 
hers.  Indeed,  he  forgot  in  one  moment  his  agonies  of 
indecision  as  to  the  precise  way  in  which  various  dif- 
ficult dishes  should  be  attacked ;  his  terror  lest  he  should 
confuse  the  wine-glasses,  whose  pictures  he  had  care- 
fully learnt  by  heart  beforehand;  his  wild  chase  across 
London  in  pursuit  of  a  man  who  could  decide  with 
authority  the  horrible,  suddenly  recollected  problem  of 
gloves;  and  all  his  anxiously  prepared  speeches  into  the 
bargain.  This  vision  must  be  Polly  Bremner,  and  he 
could  only  stare  and  goggle! 

' '  I  'm — I  'm  afraid  I  'm  awfully  early, ' '  he  stammered. 
"My  n-name  is  Middleton."  At  which  point  he  stuck. 
He  was  desperately  anxious  to  make  proper  conversa- 
tion, only  the  words  had  all  fled  into  crannies  of  his 
mind,  from  which  they  peeped  and  mocked  him. 

Cynthia's  naturalness  saved  the  situation.  "I  knew 
you  were  Mr.  Middleton,"  she  said  cheerfully.  "I'm 
glad  I'm  early  too.  Please  sit  down.  Come  closer  to 
the  fire;  it's  chilly  in  the  evenings,  isn't  it?" 

Peter  fell  over  a  Persian  cat,  and,  by  an  acrobatic 
effort,  gained  a  chair. 

"I'm  most  fearfully  sorry!"  he  apologised  to  the 
indignant  tail  of  the  animal  as  it  disappeared  from  the 
room.  The  corners  of  Cynthia's  mouth  curved  bewitch- 
ingly,  and  she  smiled.  He  had  found  his  way  to  her 
heart  by  the  correct  aim  of  an  apology:  it  would  have 
been  quite  wrong  had  he  made  it  to  her.  As  things  were 
she  felt  irresistibly  disposed  to  be  friendly  to  Peter,  but 
remembering  the  duties  of  decorum  she  merely  said, 


THE  WINGS  OF  YOUTH  13 

"Don't  bother  about  the  cat.  She  isn't  a  bit  hurt, 
really,"  and  proceeded  to  develop  the  conversation 
through  cats  to  tigers,  and  from  tigers  to  Swan's  ani- 
mal paintings,  and  thence  to  the  Tate  Gallery,  where 
they  were  both  at  home,  each  eager  to  act  as  host  to  the 
other.  In  fact  something  like  a  quarrel  arose  over  Good- 
win's Ali  Baba  and  the  Forty  Thieves,  to  which  they 
laid  such  particular  claim  that  it  sounded  as  though 
one  of  them  must  at  the  least  have  presented  the  picture 
to  the  nation,  if  neither  had  painted  it. 

"That  one's  mine!"  cried  Peter.  "That  one  at  least 
is  mine." 

"No,  it  isn't,"  resisted  Cynthia,  childishly.  "I  want 
it.  But  I'll  give  it  to  you,"  she  added  sweetly,  recol- 
lecting that  she  had  not  known  Mr.  Middleton  very  long 
and  that  her  mother  might  not  approve  of  a  sudden 
intimacy,  indeed  might  not  authorise  one  at  all.  There 
is  something  barrier-breaking  about  even  a  pretended 
quarrel.  So  she  went  on  to  tell  him  how  she  had  been 
first  taken  to  the  Tate  by  Mr.  James. 

"Not  Shaun  James?"  asked  Peter,  enlightened  by 
the  pride  in  her  voice.  His  own  was  admiring  enough 
to  satisfy  Cynthia ;  she  counted  him  a  Friend  from  that 
moment.  It  was  clever  of  him  not  to  guess  Henry 
James,  who  had  not  written  novels  half  as  good  as 
Shaun 's  in  her  opinion — with  which  Shaun  disagreed. 
She  nodded,  dimpling. 

"Why,  he  wrote  about  the  Tate!"  murmured  Peter, 
round-eyed  with  awe  of  this  wonderful  girl  who  knew 
a  celebrated  author.  Why,  she  would  be  telling  him 
next  that  she  was  a  member  of  the  Savage  Club,  which 
he  was  ignorant  enough  to  believe  a  possibility. 
Cynthia,  who  was  a  trifle  amused  at  the  impression  she 
had  made,  was  on  the  point  of  informing  him  that 
Shaun  might  arrive  at  any  second,  when  the  door,  which 
Peter  had  closed  behind  the  cat,  opened  again  to  the 
rustling  of  silken  skirts. 

' '  Oh,  here  you  are,  Rosemary ! ' '  said  Lady  Bremner 
as  they  turned  to  receive  her.  The  phrase  was  mean- 
ingless. She  used  it  always  on  greeting  her  daughter 


14  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

after  an  absence,  whether  this  had  lasted  a  few  minutes 
or  several  days.  Peter  saw  advancing  a  thin  lady  in 
black,  with  what  are  commonly  called  aristocratic 
features,  which  wore  a  kind  expression.  Cynthia  intro- 
duced him.  He  spoke,  but  hardly  knew  what  he  said. 
"We  are  very  glad  indeed  that  you  could  come!"  re- 
plied the  lady  with  apparent  sincerity.  She  had  made 
him  feel  at  ease  by  her  courteous,  accomplished  use  of 
a  few  simple  words,  and  he  immediately  began  to  find 
in  her  a  likeness  to  Cynthia.  But  her  voice  was  not  so 
clear  and  pretty  as  Cynthia's,  and  it  was  older  and  less 
gay. 

He  had  scarcely  time  to  form  an  impression  before 
other  guests  began  to  arrive.  The  short,  plain  young 
woman  in  red  was  called  Miss  Taliesin.  She  spoke  in 
orderly  sentences  like  a  book,  and  there  was  vigorous 
common  sense  in  what  she  said.  Alan,  the  son  of  the 
house,  a  model  of  smooth  correctness,  nice-looking  in  an 
unemotional  way,  took  possession  of  her  as  soon  as  he 
came.  Next  arrived  Laurence  Man,  whom  Peter  recog- 
nised with  dismay,  for  it  was  the  custom  of  the  Great 
Company  to  watch  jealously  the  expenditure  of  their 
junior  clerks,  especially  of  those  who  were  not  living  at 
home,  and  the  possession  of  wealthy  friends  meant  being 
unfavourably  remarked  upon  unless  those  friends  were 
connected  with  the  Directorate.  Peter  saw  no  oppor- 
tunity of  explaining  to  his  chief  that  this  was  the  first 
time  he  had  dined  out  in  his  life ;  besides,  he  was  certain 
that  ''Lordly  Laurence"  would  resent  having  been 
invited  to  meet  him  and  would  not  want  to  speak  to 
him  at  all. 

Regarding  him  with  a  critical  eye,  Peter  realised  that 
whereas  in  the  City  he  had  admired  Laurence's  distinc- 
tion, here  in  Portman  Square  he  was  doubting  his  breed- 
ing— a  return  to  an  older  and  truer  standard  of  judg- 
ment. Laurence  Man  had  been  to  a  good  public  school, 
he  had  refined  features,  his  voice  was  pleasant,  his  de- 
sire to  please  assiduous;  yet  seen  at  the  side  of  Alan 
Bremner  something  was  lacking.  Peter  hastily  decided 
that  he  was  a  snob,  which  received  confirmation  a  mo- 


THE  WINGS  OF  YOUTH  15 

ment  later  when  Laurence  ignored  him.  However,  he 
only  half  understood  the  reason  why  Laurence  was  de- 
voting himself  to  Lady  Bremner,  hanging  upon  her 
most  ordinary  remarks  with  an  air  that  Cynthia  con- 
demned as  'dying  duck.'  It  was  in  reality  part  of  his 
policy,  while  his  ignoring  of  Peter  was  the  consequence 
of  jealousy. 

Whilst  the  two  young  people  were  engaged  in  under- 
rating Laurence  Man's  intelligence,  Sir  Everard  came 
in.  He  apologised  politely  for  being  late,  and  welcomed 
his  guests  with  formal  kindness.  Peter's  mental  picture 
of  a  ruddy,  jovial  giant — a  memory  of  childhood — bore 
no  resemblance  to  real  life.  On  the  contrary,  he  found 
himself  shaking  hands  with  a  grey  spare  man,  who  had 
heavy  eyebrows,  insignificant  clean-shaven  features, 
steady  eyes  without  expression,  and  a  polished  unyield- 
ing manner  of  address;  only  the  sunburned  skin  was 
true  to  recollection,  and  that  was  bronzed  instead  of 
florid.  Who's  Who  had  revealed  Sir  Everard  as  a  fine 
mathematician,  educated  at  Harrow  and  St.  John's, 
Cambridge,  fond  of  yachting  and  fishing,  and  a  mem- 
ber of  the  Travellers'  Club;  and  his  letter  had  sug- 
gested to  Peter  that  he  was  accustomed  to  be  authorita- 
tive behind  a  veil  of  diplomacy.  Now  Peter  discovered 
he  had  charm. 

No  sooner  had  Sir  Everard  left  him  than  a  very 
spick-and-span  maid  approached  Lady  Bremner,  who  was 
close  by,  and  announced  in  a  low  voice,  ' '  If  you  please, 
a  telephone  message  has  just  come  from  Mr.  James, 
requesting  you  not  to  wait  dinner  for  him,  my  lady. 
He  says  he  has  been  arrested!" 

"Good  gracious,  Rosemary!"  apostrophised  the 
mother,  though  the  daughter  responsible  for  the  erring 
guest  was  some  distance  away  and  out  of  earshot. 
' '  Didn  't  he  say  any  more  than  that,  Simmins  ? ' ' 

' '  Only  '  Goodbye, '  my  lady. ' ' 

"How  vexatious!  Very  good,  Simmins;  that  will 
do." 

Lady  Bremner  departed  on  a  cutting-out  expedition, 
and  presently  withdrew  her  husband  from  Laurence 


16  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

Man.  Peter  watched,  fascinated,  and  Miss  Taliesin,  who 
had  joined  Peter  and  to  set  him  at  ease  was  monopolis- 
ing the  conversation,  formed  a  poor  opinion  of  him  as  a 
listener.  In  fact  she  decided  that  he  was  disappoint- 
ingly ill-mannered,  and  deserted  the  subject  of  politics, 
on  which  she  could  talk  ably  and  sensibly,  for  motor- 
ing, of  which  she  knew  herself  to  be  grotesquely 
ignorant.  Peter,  after  noting  with  admiration  his  host's 
calm  reception  of  the  news,  and  learning  from  the  brief 
lift  of  his  eyebrows  that  he  cared  little  for  Mr.  James 
and  was  only  slightly  surprised  at  his  fate,  returned  to 
the  topic  of  motoring,  sustaining  it  with  difficulty,  since 
he  had  never  been  in  a  motor-car.  Then  two  ladies  ar- 
rived together,  one  of  them  of  uncertain  age,  like  a  lily 
of  the  hothouse  on  the  point  of  fading,  robed  in  a 
sheath  and  jewelled  marvellously,  who  discoursed  of  the 
illness  of  a  husband;  and  the  other  absurdly  young, 
enchantingly  pretty,  and  impulsive  and  outspoken 
enough  to  be  a  terror  to  any  hostess.  She  was  Cyn- 
thia's cousin  Phyllis,  much  in  awe  of  Lady  Bremner 
fortunately,  and  she  fell  to  Peter's  lot  to  take  in,  dinner 
being  now  no  longer  delayed. 

"Do  you  like  black  eyes  and  hair?"  she  inquired  of 
him  in  an  eager  voice  as  soon  as  they  were  fairly  set- 
tled. "I  do.  I  suppose  it  is  because  my  own  are  dark. 
Rosie  looks  heavenly  though,  doesn't  she?" 

"Yes,  she  does,  but  I  thought  she  was  called  Polly," 
said  Peter,  who  was  not  meant  to  interrupt. 

"My  uncle  calls  her  that.  Mr.  James  calls  her  Cyn- 
thia. Auntie  calls  her  Rosemary.  What  was  I  say- 
ing ?  Oh  yes,  looks — I  don 't  care  for  that  woman  I  came 
with  a  bit.  She's  passee,  you  know.  I  wonder  why 
we  sat  down  with  an  empty  place?" 

Lady  Bremner  disengaged  herself  from  her  mild  con- 
versation with  Laurence  Man,  glanced  across  Peter,  and 
said  gently  but  meaningly,  "Because  we  were  so  very 
late,  Phyllis  darling."  At  which  the  darling  blushed, 
tossed  her  head,  and  attacked  her  soup.  Peter  admired 
the  trophy  of  Zulu  shields  and  assegais  on  the  wall 
opposite.  Then  he  wondered  who  had  arranged  the 


THE  WINGS  OF  YOUTH  17 

orchids  in  the  centrepiece,  and  why  dining-rooms  are 
usually  papered  in  a  shade  of  red,  and  was  summoning 
courage  to  inspect  his  other  neighbour  when  a  diversion 
was  effected  by  a  voice  behind  his  back  announcing  ner- 
vously, "Mr.  Shaun  James!" 

The  distinguished  author  had  an  entrance  to  make 
that  would  have  daunted  most  people,  and  he  made  it 
very  quietly.  He  was  not  tall,  and  his  straw-coloured 
hair  needed  cutting,  but  to  Peter's  admiring  eyes  he 
looked  clever  enough  for  anything,  and  his  evening 
clothes  were  as  correct  as  Alan's  and  less  obtrusively 
foppish.  "The  police  arrested  me  in  mistake  for  a 
pickpocket  who  they  say  resembles  me,"  he  explained 
to  Lady  Bremner,  ' '  and  were  kind  enough  to  let  me 
telephone  from  the  station  when  I  was  waiting  to  be 
identified  and  released.  Luckily  the  nearest  man  I  knew 
was  at  home,  and  he  came  round  at  once." 

"Where  were  you,  then,  Mr.  James,  when  this  dread- 
ful thing  happened  ? ' ' 

"Marble  Arch,  Lady  Bremner;  admiring  the  evening 
sky.  They  told  me  it  was  just  what  a  pickpocket  and 
only  a  pickpocket  would  do.  A  pretty  comment  on  the 
state  of  aesthetics  in  this  country!  I'm  desolated  at 
the  trouble  I've  caused  you."  He  went  to  his  seat  be- 
tween Cynthia  and  Phyllis ;  Alan  and  Sir  Everard  spoke 
to  him  across  the  table.  Peter  was  concentrating  all 
his  wits  upon  the  fish,  wherein  lurked  unsuspected 
bones,  calculated  to  raise  the  blush  of  shame  to  the 
cheek  of  innocence. 

"Are  you  a  suffragist?"  asked  a  little  buzzing  voice 
in  his  ear.  "I  am.  I'm  sure  I  deserve  a  vote.  Miss 
Taliesin  is  one,  too.  She  doesn't  go  to  prison,  because 
she  works.  She  inspects  sweated  trades  and  that  sort 
of  thing.  Rather  dull,  but  most  fearfully  useful,  you 
know.  I  daresay  I  may  go  to  Holloway  one  day,  I 
haven't  quite  made  up  my  mind  yet.  They  say  Alan 
Bremner  is  in  love  with  her,  but  he  couldn't  possibly 
marry  her."  The  voice  grew  more  piercing  as  the 
speaker  became  interested,  and  Peter  began  to  tremble, 
but  Lady  Bremner  this  time  gave  no  sign. 


18  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

"Indeed!"  he  answered  feebly.  "No,  I'm  not  a  suf- 
fragist." 

"Aren't  you?"  She  turned  a  pair  of  saucer-shaped 
black  eyes  upon  him.  ' '  Then  I  don 't  like  you  at  all ! " 

' '  Thank  God ! ' '  thought  Peter,  as  she  showed  him  the 
back  of  a  very  pretty  and  very  bare  shoulder  and  gave 
her  attention  to  James,  who  was  talking  and  laughing 
away  at  a  tremendous  rate  with  Cynthia.  At  the  same 
moment  Lady  Bremner  turned  to  him.  "Do  you  like 
your  work  in  the  Great  Company?"  she  asked,  hitting 
upon  the  most  unfortunate  question  that  could  have 
been  devised.  Cynthia  and  Shaun  both  had  quiet 
voices  and  were  making  very  little  noise  that  might 
cover  his  answer,  while  Miss  Taliesin  had  not  yet  cut 
short  her  interesting  talk  with  Alan  to  turn  to  Laurence 
Man,  although  she  was  on  the  point  of  doing  so.  Be- 
ing isolated,  Laurence  could  hardly  have  avoided  hear- 
ing Lady  Bremner 's  question.  He  began  to  crumble 
his  bread,  leaning  thoughtfully  forward,  and  thereby 
convinced  Peter  that  he  was  listening.  In  the  office 
a  lie  would  have  sprung  naturally  to  Peter's  lips,  but 
in  this  unpretentiously  luxurious  dining-room,  amongst 
people  whose  sense  of  honour  was  the  same  as  that  which 
he  had  received  by  inheritance,  he  found  it  impossible 
to  reply  otherwise  than  truthfully.  His  youthful  and 
excited  imagination  over-estimated  the  importance  of 
the  incident,  he  thought  he  must  prove  himself  worthy 
of  the  gentlepeople  who  were  entertaining  him,  he  re- 
membered Cynthia's  eyes — 

"I  hate  it,"  he  answered  in  a  low  voice. 

Lady  Bremner  noticed  the  tremor  with  which  he 
spoke,  and  failed  to  observe  the  swift  uneasy  glance 
he  cast  at  his  chief  across  the  table.  She  was  accus- 
tomed to  people  who  were  loyal  to  their  Services  and 
thought  them  the  finest  in  the  world,  or  she  would  not 
have  dreamt  of  asking  the  question.  A  plate  had  ar- 
rived before  Laurence,  but  he  continued  to  form  his 
bread  pills  without  regarding  it  or  even  looking  up,  lean- 
ing over  the  table  with  a  dull  face.  "Why?"  he  asked, 
addressing  Peter  for  the  first  time,  and  then,  languidly 


THE  WINGS  OF  YOUTH  19 

drawing  himself  up,  added,  "But  Lady  Bremner  will 
not  be  interested  in  the  affairs  of  our  Company,"  and 
engaged  her  on  another  topic.  Peter  cursed  himself 
wildly  for  a  fool.  He  had  hoped  that  Laurence  would 
not  overhear,  but  now  the  mischief  was  done,  and  effec- 
tively done.  He  saw  himself  marked  down  as  a  ring- 
leader of  the  malcontents  in  the  office — wherein  he  exag- 
gerated, for  Laurence  had  chiefly  noticed  the  boldness  of 
the  reply.  Peter  was  right,  however,  when  he  thought 
that  Laurence  would  not  forget.  He  never  forgot  any- 
thing, least  of  all  what  happened  at  the  Bremners'. 

Finding  two  wineglasses  full  by  his  side,  Peter  emptied 
them  one  after  another  with  the  courage  of  despair. 

"Rosemary  and  Mr.  James  are  very  devoted  to  each 
other,"  sighed  Phyllis,  returning.  "It  sounds  fright- 
fully rude  of  me  to  complain  of  that  to  you,  and  I 
hope  you  don't  mind.  He  says  she's  a  girl  one  can 
be  young  with.  She  told  me  so,  before  she  found  out 
how  untrustworthy  I  am.  We  were  most  fearfully  inti- 
mate at  one  time,  though  you'd  hardly  believe  it  now. 
She  told  me  Mr.  James  said  he  had  never  been  young. 
You  know  Rosie's  the  most  heavenly  girl.  ..."  She 
did  not  cease  to  chatter  during  the  remainder  of  the  meal, 
and  Peter  sank  into  deeper  and  deeper  despondency. 

At  last  the  ladies  departed.  Peter,  holding  open  the 
door,  received  a  serene  smile  of  the  eyes  from  Cynthia 
as  she  passed,  which  seemed  to  tell  him,  "I'm  your 
friend.  Don't  forget  it,  please!"  On  the  instant  he 
felt  more  cheerful.  Alan  came  across  to  him  and  talked 
for  some  time  about  aviation  with  a  kind  of  stiff  courtesy 
— the  stiffness  being  due  to  preoccupation,  not  to  lack 
of  cordiality  as  Peter  imagined.  The  conversation  was 
not  a  success,  and  having  done  his  duty  Alan  joined 
in  the  political  discussion  at  the  other  end  of  the  table, 
from  which  Sir  Everard  immediately  detached  himself 
in  order  to  chat  with  his  youngest  guest.  His  manner 
to  Peter  was  dry  but  cordial,  and  he  won  his  confi- 
dence in  the  first  five  minutes.  Sir  Everard  was  in- 
deed genuinely  remorseful  at  his  prolonged  neglect  of 
his  old  school-friend's  son,  of  whose  existence  he  had 


20  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

been  reminded  accidentally  on  turning  out  the  contents 
of  a  drawer  of  his  writing-desk.  He  intended  to  be- 
friend Peter  if  possible,  that  is  to  say  if  Peter  himself 
let  it  be  possible.  There  was  nothing  to  be  complained 
of  in  the  boy's  appearance  and  manners;  he  was  shy, 
but  that  would  alter  with  a  little  more  experience  of 
the  kind  of  society  which  his  birth  gave  him  the  right 
to  enter;  he  seemed  quick-witted,  and  his  disposition 
could  be  judged  gradually  by  observation — it  appeared 
to  be  affectionate  and  simple;  he  spoke  properly  of  the 
mother  he  did  not  remember,  warmly  and  respectfully 
of  his  father,  who  had  been  his  constant  companion 
to  the  age  of  seventeen  years  .  .  .  and  a  first-rate  fel- 
low Middleton  had  always  been.  But,  hullo,  what  was 
this?  "I'm  afraid  I  can't  honestly  say  that  I  was 
always  as  decent  to  him  as  I  ought  to  have  been.  He 

used  to  snort" Snort.  Poor  old  Middleton,  so  he 

did!  What  was  the  young  cub  saying? "and  I 

know  I  was  beastly  to  him  about  it  sometimes.  It's 
too  late  to  be  sorry  now."  Well,  he  looked  sorry 
enough. 

To  Peter  it  was  as  though  the  mind  of  his  interlocutor 
had  opened  halfway  in  comprehension  and  then  closed 
like  an  oyster.  He  did  not  say  any  more,  and  Sir  Ever- 
ard  offered  him  the  cigarettes. 

"Man  speaks  well  of  your  work,"  said  Sir  Everard, 
changing  the  subject ;  not  with  complete  ingenuousness, 
for  Laurence  had  been  notably  cautious  in  his  praise. 
Had  Sir  Everard  asked  him  before  the  affair  in  the 
course  of  the  first  entree  his  answer  might  have  been 
different;  as  matters  stood  Laurence  did  not  propose 
to  commit  himself  in  regard  to  the  young  gentleman. 
Perhaps  he  had  noticed  Cynthia's  smiling  eyes  as  she 
swept  out  of  the  room. 

Peter  declined  another  cigarette,  and  "Shall  we  go 
to  the  drawing-room?"  asked  Sir  Everard.  There  was 
a  general  movement  of  assent,  after  which  the  black- 
and-white  figures  filed  through  a  doorway  hung  with 
rich  Persian  curtains  into  the  hall,  where  Peter  had  the 
honour  of  having  his  arm  taken  by  the  wonderful  Shaun 


THE  WINGS  OF  YOUTH  21 

James.  "You've  got  a  kind  of  experience  that's  never 
been  properly  written,"  said  the  novelist  amicably,  as 
though  they  had  known  each  other  for  years.  "I  used 
to  thank  heaven  for  my  ignorance  of  it,  but  now  I'm 
not  so  sure.  I  wish  I  had  been  a  clerk  for  a  time." 
He  added  thoughtfully  with  what  seemed  to  Peter  ir- 
relevance, "Miss  Bremner  has  just  told  me,"  and  then 
they  entered  together  the  large  drawing-room,  with 
its  clear  green  wall-spaces  and  silver  tinted  dado  and 
conventional  elegant  chairs  and  tables. 

Mrs.  Gwiney,  the  sheathed  lily,  was  playing  Liszt  with 
appropriate  vehemence,  and  the  other  ladies  were  oc- 
cupied with  their  thoughts.  Phyllis,  who  could  toe- 
dance  better  than  the  average  amateur,  was  wonder- 
ing whether  she  would  get  an  opportunity  of  perform- 
ing. She  need  not  have  agitated  herself;  Lady  Brem- 
ner disapproved  of  her  frock  so  heartily  that  she  had 
not  the  smallest  thought  of  drawing  attention  to  it. 
Cynthia  was  meditating  her  mother's  singular  speech, 
"Rosemary  dearest,  Mr.  Man  says  he's  determined  to 
marry  soon."  Was  it  intended  as  a  hint?  Or  could  it 
mean  that  she  was  to  be  left  in  peace  after  all?  Miss 
Taliesin  was  too  tired  after  her  day's  work  to  do  more 
than  sit  and  dream,  while  Lady  Bremner  was  mentally 
designing  a  new  tea-gown  for  her  daughter,  the  dress- 
ing of  whom  was  her  great  joy  in  life.  The  arrival  of 
the  men  broke  up  the  group,  and  Shaun,  leaving  Peter's 
side,  crossed  immediately  to  Cynthia,  by  whom  he  sat 
for  a  moment  before  joining  Miss  Taliesin,  whose  drowsi- 
ness he  covered  by  a  steady  flow  of  conversation  which 
needed  neither  comment  nor  reply.  Alan,  misled  by 
Shaun 's  first  movement,  was  not  quick  enough  to  fore- 
stall him,  and  moving  too  close  to  the  piano  was  called 
upon  to  sing.  Man  fell  a  victim  to  Phyllis,  and  was 
rescued  by  his  hostess.  Sir  Everard,  who  was  really 
fond  of  music,  seated  himself  near  the  piano,  prepared 
to  listen.  And  there  was  left  an  opportunity  for  Peter, 
who  had  taken  a  modest  place  by  the  door,  to  take 
his  courage  in  both  hands  and  cross  to  the  corner  where 
Cynthia  sat,  somewhat  removed  from  the  others. 


22  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

This  time  she  did  not  welcome  him.  In  the  whirl  and 
confusion  of  her  thoughts  she  ascribed  his  consequent 
silence  to  tactful  sympathy,  and  liked  him  all  the  more. 
It  was  not  till  she  was  in  her  room  again  that  she  real- 
ised how  unkind  she  must  have  appeared;  and  then 
compunction  made  her  cheeks  burn  red,  for  she  knew 
she  had  behaved  abominably  and  spoilt  the  rest  of  Mr. 
Middleton's  evening,  which  must  have  been  dull  in- 
deed. She  had  told  Shaun  what  her  mother  had  said 
about  Laurence — from  no  motive  of  coquetry,  their 
friendship  being  above  that.  But  what  could  Shaun 
have  meant  by  replying  in  that  queer  agitated  way  of 
his,  which  usually  was  a  sign  that  he  was  wholly 
serious,  "Make  me  tell  you  to-morrow  why  /  can't 
marry."  Whatever  could  have  been  in  his  mind? 

She  could  not  decide  whether  she  were  glad  or  sorry 
to  hear  that  he  could  not  marry.  She  was  certainly 
shaken  by  the  news,  so  upset  that  she  slipped  into  bed 
without  remembering  to  say  her  prayers;  but  notwith- 
standing her  worries  sleep  came  quickly  to  her  healthy 
youth,  and  after  that  first  meeting  of  theirs  it  was 
Peter  Middleton  who  lay  awake.  Until  the  morning 
broke  he  tossed  and  turned,  watching  the  persons  of 
his  dinner-party  march  to  and  fro  across  his  mental 
vision.  Cynthia  was  amongst  them,  no  longer  ethereal 
or  a  nymph  with  starry  eyes,  but  just  a  sad,  displeased 
girl  with  averted  face  and  glorious  hair,  and  a  turn  of 
the  head  and  neck  that  compelled  forgiveness. 

Shaun  wrote  till  the  morning;  Laurence  Man  slept 
the  sleep  of  an  inheritor  of  the  earth. 


Ill 

CYNTHIA  awoke  next  morning  with  a  sense  of  quiet 
happiness  that  was  delightful;  she  was  to  see  Shaun 
again,  to  have  another  holiday.  Then  as  she  pushed  her 
hair  back  from  her  drowsy  eyes,  sitting  up  in  bed,  she 
remembered  that  their  talk  was  to  be  a  disturbing  one 
introductory  perhaps  of  change  in  their  jolly  relations> 
whereupon  the  big  grey  eyes  opened  wide,  her  hands 
dropped  upon  the  quilt,  and  she  became  broad  awake. 
With  a  deft  toss  of  her  pretty  head  she  shook  her  wealth 
of  hair  behind  her,  and  half  turning  took  the  cup  of  tea 
from  the  rosewood  table  by  her  side.  As  she  sipped  she 
made  up  her  mind.  Her  decision  was  to  defend  the 
existing  situation  resolutely. 

Shaun  must  not  flatter  her  in  that  particular  way ;  if 
he  talked  of  love  to  her — love  for  her — she  should  call  it 
flattery,  for  so  it  would  be  from  a  clever  man  in  his 
position — she  did  not  say,  of  his  age — to  a  stupid,  un- 
formed girl  like  herself:  he  was  sweet  enough  to  treat 
her  as  an  equal,  and  that  was  sufficient.  What  moved 
men  to  fall  in  love  she  did  not  understand  ;  from  the  way 
Shaun  spoke  sometimes  one  would  imagine  the  shape 
of  an  arm  were  able  to  make  them !  They  did  not  seem 
to  wait  to  find  out  whether  the  girl  were  nice.  Of 
course  she  herself  had  been  attracted  by  people  whom 
she  did  not  know  personally,  but  then  she  had  always 
known  she  was  being  silly,  and  men  were  quite  serious 
about  their  love-affairs.  One  hurt  them  dreadfully  by 
having  to  refuse  them — though  she  supposed  that  did 
not  last  long,  as  a  man  who  had  proposed  to  her  had 
married  some  one  else  only  three  months  afterwards. 

Shaun  would  declare  that  he  did  know  her — if  he 
proposed,  which  really  she  hadn't  any  right  to  expect 

23 


24  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

after  his  saying  distinctly  that  he  could  not  marry! 
But  then  did  he  know  her?  Could  he?  If  he  did  he 
would  not  want  to  marry  her.  And  he  wanted  that, 
she  was  sure.  ...  It  was  a  vicious  circle.  .  .  .  And 
besides  he  always  did  the  talking !  After  all,  she  scarcely 
said  a  word  when  she  was  with  him,  because  she  liked 
to  listen.  How  could  you  know  anyone  who  always 
listened?  Of  course  he  was  wonderfully  clever  and 
often  guessed  what  she  was  thinking  about,  but  then 
he  was  sometimes  quite  wrong.  Men  did  not  under- 
stand what  trivial  kinds  of  things  a  girl  could  be  in- 
terested in,  though  Shaun  was  certainly  better  at  un- 
derstanding than  other  men.  And  there  it  was  again! 
If  he  understood  why  did  he  fall  in  love?  Surely 
it  could  not  be  her  arms!  It  wasn't  possible  he  should 
love  such  a  kid  as  she  was  in  the  proper  way,  the  way 
he  had  loved  his  wife — it  simply  wasn't  to  be  done. 
Mr.  Middleton  might,  because  he  was  so  young  and  he 
was  like  her  in  some  ways,  but  Shaun  with  his  clever- 
ness and  experience,  no! 

At  this  point  Marie  announced  Cynthia's  bath,  and 
the  conclusion  of  the  argument  was  postponed  in  favour 
of  practical  things. 

Behold  her,  in  a  pale  blue  coat  and  skirt  and  a  dainty 
hat  with  a  curling  feather,  entering  in  the  wake  of  a 
couple  of  ragamuffins  the  left-hand  door  that  opens  into 
the  entrance  hall  of  the  British  Museum.  Shaun  was  in 
attendance  within,  having  just  decided  himself  to  be 
not  in  love,  because  of  the  strength  of  mind  he  had  ex- 
hibited in  not  awaiting  her  upon  the  steps,  which  would 
have  enabled  him  to  watch  her  approach  from  a  dis- 
tance. The  sight  of  Cynthia  dispelled  the  illusion.  They 
shook  hands  in  silence. 

And  now  from  sheer  interest  and  without  trace  of 
jealousy,  he  asked  in  his  eager  voice,  "Isn't  young 
Middleton  a  nice  boy?  Do  you  still  like  him  as  much 
this  morning,  Cynthia?" 

He  saw  the  girl's  face  brighten,  and  a  faint  suspicion 
whispered  in  his  heart  and  died  away  again.  Cynthia 
had  felt  relief;  she  answered  gladly,  "I  like  him  ever 


THE  WINGS  OF  YOUTH  25 

so  much.  Perhaps  Mother  will  let  him  be  friends  with 
me." 

' '  She  may.  Sir  Everard  took  to  him,  I  think.  Which 
way?  To  the  Elgin  room?  He's  immature — by  which 
I  mean  Middleton,  not  your  father,  Cynthia ;  but  Time, 
which  has  caused  the  Discobolus  to  need  something  more 
than  a  feather  duster  to  keep  him  clean — it  will  be 
washing-day  soon,  I  trust — may  expand  Peter's  brain- 
cells.  That  is  to  say,  if  brain-cells  do  expand!  He 
isn't  like  Peter  Pan,  but  the  name  Peter  suits  him 
well  enough.  I  shall  call  him  that." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  said  Cynthia.  "He  seemed  to 
me  rather  like  Peter  Pan." 

"Not  so  selfish,  dear.  Isn't  Clytie  modern?  Best 
middle  Victorian,  I  think.  It's  not  often  we  get  two 
days  running,  is  it,  chum?"  Shaun  was  in  his  tri- 
umphal vein,  prancing  with  joy  at  the  mere  being  with 
a  beautiful  girl,  glancing  pityingly  at  unaccompanied 
males,  childishly  happy;  but  although  in  appearance 
forgetful  of  his  speech  of  yesterday  he  could  not  be 
trusted  yet.  So  Cynthia  decided,  answering  cautiously. 

"No,  it  isn't.  Often  it's  months  before  I  see  you.  I 
wonder  Mother  let  me  come,  after  your  being  arrested 
last  night.  Still,  seeing  you  is  the  only  thing  I  ever  do 
fight  for,  and  I  suppose  I  fight  hard.  Oh,  Shaun,  you 
don't  know  what  it  is  to  have  so  little  liberty  that  you 
can't  even  go  out  alone  without  saying  why!" 

No  author  likes  to  be  told  that  there  is  anything  in 
human  nature  he  does  not  understand.  "I  can  guess," 
said  Shaun  sympathetically.  "Why  don't  you  marry, 
Cynthia?" 

She  stopped  and  looked  at  him  with  reproachful  eyes. 
"Don't  laugh  at  me,  please,"  she  said.  An  attendant 
moved  nearer  to  listen. 

Shaun  swept  on,  compelling  her  to  follow  him.  "I'm 
not  laughing ! "  he  cried,  but  still  in  a  moderate  voice,  for 
the  rooms  were  not  altogether  empty.  "And  I'm  not 
thinking  of  Laurence  Man.  I  love  you,  you  dear  little 
idiot,  you  sweet  Cythia.  Beautiful,  wise  girl,  how  can 
I  help  it?  But  I'm  doing  my  best  not  to,  which  is 


26  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

why  I'm  proposing  with  every  possible  disadvantage  in 
a  building  where  no  one  can  ever  be  alone,  and  in  a 
room  that  contains  not  only  a  procession  of  appropriate 
Amazons — they  are  earless,  eyeless  masterpieces — but 
a  suspicious  attendant  and  an  early  British,  pre-Raphael- 
ite  spinster.  Oh,  come  away,  dear,  for  goodness'  sake, 
and  let's  try  the  Assyrian  bulls,  there's  a  seat  close 
to  them  that's  quiet.  Yes,  I  love  you,  love  you,  love 
you,  ass — I  mean  knave — that  I  am,  and  I  mustn't,  and 
I'm  going  to  tell  you  why.  Now  let's  be  rational 
and  calm." 

"I  don't  love  you,"  said  Cynthia,  steadily,  as  she  had 
often  said  it  in  her  thoughts. 

"We  will  argue  that  point  later,"  said  Shaun,  hurry- 
ing her  towards  the  seat,  which  they  secured  in  time 
to  forestall  a  pair  of  happier  lovers.  "Let  us  be  calm, 
Cynthia,  and  don't  mind  my  playing  the  fool,  because 
if  I  didn't  let  off  the  steam  that  way  I  might  hold  your 
hand,  or — no,  you  needn't  shrink  away." 

"I  wasn't  shrinking,"  said  poor  Cynthia,  defiantly, 
"and  I  wouldn't  mind  your  kissing  me,  if  we  weren't 
here.  Think  what  you  like.  I'm  not  ashamed.  But  I 
don't  love  you,  Shaun.  You  know  I  don't." 

"You  never  will  after  what  I'm  going  to  tell  you," 
cried  Shaun  excitedly,  "My  good  angel  has  won  a  dam- 
nable triumph,  and  you  never  will ! ' '  His  voice  changed 
and  tears  came  into  his  eyes.  "I  daresay  you  never 
would  have !  .  .  .  I  'm  going  to  tell  you  a  story  and  make 
a  speech,  and  I'll  try  to  be  natural,  chum  darling,  al- 
though it's  the  hardest  thing  to  ask  of  me.  Your  eyes 
are  too  close  to  mine,  .  .  .  and  your  soft  brilliant  cheeks 
and  that  mouth  which  is  sorry  for  me,  and  I  can  guess 
the  fragrance  of  your  hair  .  .  .  Cynthia!  No,  I 
mustn't!  Stop!  Now,  listen,  dear.  Hang  that  Assyrian 
bull,  it's  laughing  at  me.  You  remember  Doris,  my  wife ; 
you  were  fond  of  her,  and  your  mother  did  not  mind. 
She  came  to  the  house  as  your  mother's  friend.  You  did 
not  know  what  she  was  to  me,  and  I  've  never  spoken  to 
you  about  her.  I'm  going  to  now,  and  for  a  reason. 
You  must  just  listen.  Will  you  do  that  for  me?" 


THE  WINGS  OF  YOUTH  27 

"Of  course  I  will,"  replied  Cynthia,  staring  in  front 
of  her,  heyond  the  exquisite  drapery  of  the  stone  Nere- 
ides, up  the  long  Egyptian  Gallery. 

"And  don't  think  me  a  fool,  dear,  don't  do  that! 
I  'm  telling  you  this  now  for  a  purpose,  not  from  simple 
clumsiness. ' ' 

Cynthia  turned  her  head  and  looked  at  him  between 
smiles  and  tears.  He  met  the  glance  of  her  eyes  and 
sighed,  for  they  were  very  beautiful.  She  waited  a 
moment,  considering;  then  she  said  with  firmness,  "If 
you  can  think  that  of  me,  can  imagine  I  would  mis- 
understand, doesn't  it  tell  you,  Shaun,  that  you  don't 
really" — she  lowered  her  voice,  as  one  speaks  of  God — 
"love  me?" 

"I  don't!  Not  as  I  did  her.  But  it's  not  passion 
in  me,  Cynthia,  only.  I'm  unconscious  of  passion. 
You're  beautiful  and  the  artist  in  me  sees  your  beauty 
as  the  image  of  a  divine  thing.  Passion  is  behind,  no 
doubt,  but  a  greater  element  is  there.  Beauty  is  one 
of  the  Trinity  with  Truth  and  Love,  and  may  be  wor- 
shipped rightly  as  an  aspect  of  the  Absolute,  which  is 
God.  Do  you  see?  I'm  cutting  it  all  too  short,  but 
you'll  understand.  You  always  do.  There  are  three 
kinds  of  true  priests,  the  artist  who  interprets  Beauty, 
the  philosopher  who  follows  Truth,  the  religious  who 
practises  Love.  They  should  not  exclude  each  other, 
that's  all.  They  should  be  one  individual,  not  three, 
a  Trinity  of  priesthood.  .  .  .  Chum,  I'm  more  than  a 
worshipper  of  you,  though.  I'm  a  lonely  man,  who  loves 
his  friend,  who's  a  commonplace  man,  and  likes  being 
understood,  made  much  of  ...  caressed  when  he's 
down,  likes  having  the  child  in  him  comforted,  then 
.  .  .  flattered  when  he  struts,  too,  perhaps  .  .  .  who 
wants  to  have  a  home  where  there's  always  love,  a  home 
in  someone's  heart.  The  human  in  me  calls  you,  but 
it  must  not.  /  know  it's  weakness  as  you  do,  and  I'm 
poor — no,  let  me  go  on ;  you  'd  give  up  many  important 
things  if  you  married  me,  lose  them  altogether ;  I  ought 
not  to  ask  it,  I  don't.  .  .  .  My  dear,  I  loved  Doris  be- 
cause she  was  Love  and  Truth, — and  the  greatest  of  the 


28  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

three  is  Love,  and  the  second  Truth.  She  and  I  were 
One,  not  two.  You  and  I  couldn't  be  One,  that  was 
a  dream  of  mine  that  dissolves  on  waking  and  leaves 
me  lonely  .  .  .  lonely.  ..."  His  voice  died  away,  mur- 
muring, into  saddest  silence.  She  almost  loved  him,  then ; 
her  heart  was  melting  with  pitiful  tears.  She 

He  divined  and  spoke :  ' '  She  was  not  pretty,  but  her 
face  was  dear  to  me ;  looking  on  it  I  remembered  God. 
She  was  not  clever,  but  she  understood  men  and  women, 
and,  understanding,  loved  them.  She  was  entirely  un- 
selfish. Two  days  before  she  died — so  unexpectedly,  so 
tragically  early,  at  the  best  time  of  our  love,  when  sun- 
kissed  Joy,  visible  as  a  bright  spirit  in  the  twilight  of 
youth,  in  the  dawning  of  life,  was  melting,  growing 
visible  in  a  steadier  light  which  shone  upon  a  world  of 
ordered  beauty  all  around  us, — two  days  before,  she 
said  to  me :  '  Boy,  dear,  if  I  were  to  die,  you  must  marry 
again.'  'Don't  think  of  such  things,'  I  answered,  for 
I  knew  her  heart  was  strained,  but  did  not  know  how 
much,  or  I  should  have  wept,  not  spoken.  'You'd  be 
so  lonely,'  she  went  on,  'you  need  a  Mother,  Boy,  dear. 
No  one  will  ever  love  you  quite  as  I  do  and  I'm  horrid 
enough  to  be  glad  of  that,  but  many  girls  must  love  you. 
They  could  not  help  themselves.  One  of  them  might  be 
a  little  Mother  and  sweet  Wife,  as  I  have  tried  to  be.' 
Tears  sprang  to  my  eyes ;  why,  I  did  not  know.  '  Would 
you  wish  that?'  I  asked,  thinking  it  a  light  question — 
'yourself,  I  mean.'  She  looked  at  me,  and  answered 
'Yes.'  .  .  .  Cynthia,  it  was  the  first  time  she  had  ever 
lied!  .  .  . 

' '  The  interruption  of  a  servant  showing  in  a  visitor,  • 
one  of  those  apparently  trifling  bits  of  'business'  in  the 
play  of  life,  that  may  turn  out  to  be  so  dramatic,  that 
may  affect  the  action  even  to  the  fall  of  the  curtain, 
closed  the  scene.  It  was  our  habit  to  talk  out  mis- 
understandings and  obscurities  lest  they  should  grow 
into  obstacles  so  high  as  to  shut  us  from  the  sight  of  each 
other's  eyes.  Here,  to  my  mind,  there  was  nothing  but 
clearness :  yet  what  a  difference  a  few  more  words  might 
have  made  to  us  both,  to  her,  waiting,  perhaps  watching 


THE  WINGS  OF  YOUTH  29 

me  now  with  love  and  tears;  to  myself,  unworthy.  The 
occasion  did  not  come.  Two  gentle  nights,  two  flying 
days  passed  by.  I  was  good  to  her — that  was  not  always 
the  case,  but  in  those  two  short  days  God  in  His  kindness 
made  me  tender — and  then  an  evening  of  firelight  peace, 
and  talk  of  books  and  animals — we  had  been  to  the  Zoo 
that  day  and  Doris  had  coaxed  the  squirrels  to  her.  I 
could  not  remember  what  it  was  I'd  wanted  to  ask.  I 
kissed  her  good-night.  Her  lips  clung  to  mine,  loth  to 
depart.  She  turned  upon  her  pillow,  nestled,  slept,  and 
then  I,  listening  to  the  softness  of  her  breathing  in  the 
peaceful  silent  darkness,  heard  a  little  gasp  and  felt  her 
shudder,  and  started  up.  God!  .  .  .  God!  .  .  .  God!" 

Cynthia  leaned  forward  to  shield  him  from  the  curious 
gaze  of  the  two  ragamuffins  who  had  entered  the  Museum 
before  her;  they  were  gaping  in  round-eyed  derision  of 
the  funny  gentleman.  Shaun  rose  to  his  feet.  ' '  A  beau- 
tifully protective  gesture!"  he  commented  unsteadily. 
"Come  upstairs  and  look  at  mummies.  There's  some- 
thing very  dignified  and  consoling  about  a  mummy.  One 
can 't  doubt  immortality  in  that  room. ' '  She  walked  close 
beside  him,  feeling  grown  up  and  near  to  tears;  her 
heart  glowed  and  melted ;  he  could  have  won  her,  through 
pity  and  because  he  had  told  a  story  well.  Her  youth 
was  moved  to  a  passion  of  tenderness.  The  longing  to 
comfort  leaped  up  in  her  like  a  bright  flame.  Perhaps 
he  knew  it,  for  he  halted  on  the  staircase  and  leant  over, 
watching  the  huge  Face  of  Rameses,  and  said,  "Yet  I  do 
love  you  in  my  way,  Cynthia.  Don't  let  me  marry  you. 
You  don't  love  me.  And  that's  the  only  thing  that 
would  justify  it.  Don't  let  me,  please." 

She  trembled,  and  said,  "No,  Shaun,"  obediently, 
choking  back  tears.  She  must  have  been  very  near  to 
loving  him,  though  whether  the  magic  would  have  lasted 
one  may  doubt.  She  was  young  in  mind  as  well  as  body, 
and  though  the  spirit  of  the  artist  was  immortally  child- 
like, his  mind  had  never  been  that  of  a  boy  and  could 
not  have  met  hers  equally.  The  two  were  akin,  but  his 
mind  was  so  much  the  elder;  she  would  have  been  ever 
straining  on  tiptoe  to  reach  up  to  his  experience.  She 


30  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

was  too  beautiful  for  him  to  be  conscious  of  this;  and 
he  was  masculine,  a  jealous  artist,  and  would  have  re- 
sented an  intellectual  parity  in  so  young  a  girl.  Never- 
theless it  prevented  a  deep  and  living  love.  In  Love 
there  is  equality.  Doris  had  been  wise,  not  clever,  equal 
to  him  upon  another  plane. 

So  they  looked  at  mummies.  Shaun  wished  now  to 
jeer  at  himself,  but  the  girl 's  truer  instinct  forbade.  She 
shrank  from  his  mocking  self-analysis,  seeing  this  un- 
justified even  by  reaction  from  a  selfish  emotion.  Not 
that  she  admitted  his  selfishness — Cynthia  was  too  loyal- 
natured — but  she  understood  the  point  of  view  which 
made  him  long  to  retrace  his  steps.  The  deeper  motive  of 
his  present  cynicism,  the  cunning  one,  result  of  his  pe- 
culiar quality  of  self-control,  she  did  not  divine.  She  did 
not  know  it  was  his  means  of  guarding  her  from  the  im- 
pulses of  her  pity,  partly  through  shock  of  disillusion- 
ment, partly  by  stimulating  her  intelligence,  which  was 
forced  to  arouse  itself  fully  in  order  to  combat  him.  He 
exaggerated,  and  she  argued.  He  was  bitterly  self-dep- 
recatory, she  ingeniously  sympathetic:  and  when  they 
stood  in  the  Indian  Room  before  the  festival  car  at  which 
two  tiny  comic  horses  continually  strain  in  mid-air,  and 
Shaun 's  harsh  laugh  rang  out  again,  as  it  did  on  every 
visit  at  the  sight,  a  sudden  leap  of  relief  set  the  stars 
dancing  in  the  girl 's  eyes.  ' '  Let 's  be  chums,  then, ' '  cried 
Shaun,  holding  out  both  hands,  for  the  room  was  empty. 

' '  Yes, ' '  she  said  from  her  heart,  offering  gloved  hands 
in  reply,  to  which  he  stooped  his  lips.  Both  were  de- 
ceived. Both  imagined  themselves  freed  by  a  single 
gesture  from  the  consequence  of  what  had  gone  before. 
They  became  feverishly  merry;  and  Cynthia  arrived 
home  five  minutes  late  for  lunch. 

"You  are  a  little  after  time,  darling,  but  it  does  not 
matter, ' '  said  Lady  Bremner  in  affectionate  dismissal  of 
the  culprit's  voluble  explanations.  "And  how  flushed 
you  are!  Those  public  buildings  are  always  kept  so 
over-heated ! ' ' 

"I  have  had  my  hands  kissed,"  thought  Cynthia, 
smiling  to  herself.  "And  I've  got  a  real,  true  chum!" 


IV 

CYNTHIA  had  plenty  of  opportunity  during  the  weeks 
that  followed  to  consider  the  events  of  that  emotional 
morning,  as  Lady  Bremner  detained  her  close  by  her 
side  and,  thus  supported,  worked  off  a  number  of  duty 
calls  and  luncheons  which  had  been  long  in  accumula- 
tion. Then  Sir  Everard  fell  ill,  and  both  the  ladies 
were  required  to  nurse  him;  Lady  Bremner  keeping 
tidy  the  sickroom  and  arranging  flowers,  while  Cynthia 
read  aloud,  wrote  letters  to  dictation,  and  opened  or 
shut  the  windows.  The  latter  also  attended  to  the  fire, 
which  had  to  be  kept  bright  and  clear  without  being  al- 
lowed to  throw  out  much  heart ;  since  it  was  there  only 
to  be  'cheerful.'  Sir  Everard  liked  fires,  and  unfor- 
tunately hated  the  presence  of  a  housemaid  in  his  bed- 
room. To  do  him  justice,  it  must  be  admitted  he  was  an 
unconscious  tyrant :  Lady  Bremner  enjoyed  waiting  upon 
him,  it  never  occurred  to  him  to  doubt  that  Cynthia  did 
the  same ;  had  he  done  so  he  would  not  have  suffered  her 
to  spend  her  time  in  that  way,  as  he  would  have  preferred 
to  see  her  studying  mathematics.  And  if  she  could  have 
felt  herself  necessary  to  him,  Cynthia  would  have  made 
her  sacrifice  with  gladness ;  as  it  was  she  grew  more  and 
more  irritated  at  her  confinement  to  the  house,  and  man- 
aged to  find  leisure  for  a  good  many  rebellious  thoughts 
while  relaxing  not  at  all  her  outward  cheerfulness  and 
devotion.  ' '  Rosemary  is  the  most  wonderful  child, ' '  said 
Lady  Bremner  to  herself.  "Never  does  she  fail  me!" 
Peter  paid  his  call  on  a  Sunday  and  found  mother  and 
daughter  alone;  Alan,  who  often  spent  that  day  at 
Portman  Square,  had  gone  into  the  country,  and  Sir 
Everard,  who  was  beginning  to  be  indisposed,  remained 
uavisible.  Peter  was  inspirited  by  the  absence  of  any 

31 


32  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

sign  of  wrath  from  Laurence  Man,  and  when  he  found 
Cynthia  lovelier  and  kinder  than  even  his  recollection  of 
her  he  became  completely  at  ease,  forgot  rows  of  figures 
and  the  taskmaster,  and  appeared  at  his  attractive  best, 
succeeding  so  well  with  Lady  Bremner  that  she  left  him 
with  Cynthia.  ' '  Here  is  a  friend  for  you  of  whom  I  can 
approve,"  said  the  rustle  of  her  retreating  skirts,  "a 
charming-mannered  boy,  who  is  not  dangerous,  for  he 
cannot  possibly  marry.  He  will  give  you  young  com- 
panionship and,  see  how  reasonable  a  mother  I  am,  I 
leave  you  alone  with  him,  relying  on  your  good  sense, 
Rosemary. ' '  And  Cynthia  joyfully  made  the  most  of  her 
opportunity.  This  time  Peter  went  away  fairly  dazzled, 
and  spent  the  rest  of  the  week  weaving  romances  in 
which  he  became  suddenly  rich.  Then  he  too  fell  a  vic- 
tim to  the  prevalent  scourge  of  influenza,  and  was  nursed 
by  his  landlady  with  groans. 

Peter  remained  for  some  time  the  chief  person  in 
Cynthia's  meditations.  His  brown  hair  and  tall  figure 
and,  yes,  decidedly  nice-looking  countenance — in  a  plain 
way — were  more  pleasing  to  dwell  upon  than  Shaun 's 
face  of  agony  beneath  the  stone  Nereides,  or  his  dra- 
matic behaviour  in  the  Indian  Gallery.  Somehow  the 
compact  to  be  real  chums  had  proved  difficult  of  fulfil- 
ment— at  least  so  far  as  could  be  tested  by  correspond- 
ence. Shaun  wrote  either  curtly  or  with  frank  and  un- 
disguised applause  of  the  'shell  of  her'  as  Cynthia  some- 
times, in  esoteric  moods,  contemptuously  called  her  sweet 
exterior  self.  No  doubt  he  now  felt  himself  safe,  relying 
on  their  compact,  but  the  things  he  said  were  inspired  by 
the  very  genius  of  lovemaking,  and  Cynthia  felt  that  she 
ought  not  to  enjoy  them  as  much  as  she  did.  Sometimes 
they  thrilled  her,  always  they  flattered.  He  misread  her 
youth  in  assuming  compliments  could  not  touch  her 
heart,  but  the  error  conveyed  the  subtlest  praise  of  all, 
and  because  of  that  she  mistrusted  its  existence.  Was 
he  not  trying  to  make  her  really  love  him  ?  That  would 
be  to  write  him  down  treacherous,  for  the  cleverness  of 
it  could  not  be  unconscious.  Nothing  was  ever  wholly 
unconscious  in  Shaun.  He  had  the  literary  gift  of 


THE  WINGS  OF  YOUTH  33 

knowing  what  was  suggested  by  his  words  and  the  effect 
they  would  create  on  different  temperaments.  But  then 
it  was  certain  he  could  not  be  dishonest;  he  hadn't  the 
capacity !  So  he  must  be  bewildered  and  drifting,  which 
was  the  saddest  thought  of  all  to  Cynthia. 

Since  she  could  do  nothing  for  poor  Shaun,  Mr.  Mid- 
dleton  was  the  pleasanter  person  to  think  of.  He  had  a 
way  of  considering  before  he  gave  an  opinion,  which  she 
admired,  and  he  liked  the  same  books  as  she  and  knew 
just  enough  more  about  them  to  help  her,  which  would 
be  very  convenient  when  Shaun  was  not  there.  His 
refusal  to  talk  about  the  Office  to  her  showed  how  he 
must  loathe  the  place,  and  it  was  loyal  of  him  not  to 
discuss  Laurence  Man,  which  bad  Cynthia  had  been  pre- 
pared to  do  in  a  spirit  of  mockery.  It  must  be  horrid  to 
work  in  an  office,,  very  likely  amongst  men  who  had  not 
been  to  good  schools  and  were  not  gentlemen's  sons. 
They  might  be  awfully  nice,  but  one  would  not  care  to 
be  with  them  always,  was  Cynthia's  sensible  conclusion. 
Nor  would  one  enjoy  being  constantly  under  the  eye  of 
Laurence  Man,  who  had  the  knack  of  making  his  ex- 
istence remembered  in  every  circumstance.  Indeed, 
Laurence's  discovery  that  Lady  Bremner  would  listen 
willingly  to  praise,  however  flattering,  of  her  daughter 's 
looks  and  dresses  and  of  her  husband's  career  in  the 
service  of  his  country,  had  given  him  a  strong  footing 
in  Portman  Square  in  spite  of  the  indifference,  amount- 
ing almost  to  dislike,  of  the  two  men.  Alan,  it  is  true, 
could  not  object  openly  to  a  well-spoken  individual  who 
possessed  a  perfect  taste  in  cigars — which  he  gratified 
from  his  own  case — belonged  to  the  right  clubs,  and  had 
played  cricket  for  Rugby,  while  Sir  Everard  did  not 
think  about  Man  at  all  except  to  say  vaguely  to  himself 
that  if  Polly  were  keen  on  marrying  him  he  supposed 
he  would  have  to  permit  it.  Sir  Everard  prided  him- 
self on  not  interfering  in  the  affairs  of  the  womenfolk. 
From  a  Service  point  of  view  he  would  have  preferred 
working  against  Man  to  working  with  him,  but  that  did 
not  enter  into  the  question  and  was  not  because  he  un- 
derrated Laurence's  abilities. 


34  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

On  the  whole  Laurence  must  be  making  steady  progress 
with  her  mother,  Cynthia  thought,  otherwise  he  would 
not  have  sent  books,  which  their  degree  of  intimacy  did 
not  warrant  without  encouragement  from  some  one.  If 
Mummy  imagined  that  Laurence  could  ever  replace 
Shaun,  she  was  making  a  mistake ;  no  one  could  ever  do 
that.  The  very  idea  made  her  glow  with  indignation. 
She  supposed  her  mother  must  genuinely  like  the  man 
and  want  him  to  marry  her,  for  he  was  not  such  a  very 
wonderful  catch  if  you  regarded  him  in  a  horrid,  worldly 
way.  He  held  what  they  called  a  good  position — such  a 
one  as  poor  Peter  Middleton  could  never  expect  to  reach, 
for  example — and  had  some  private  means  as  well,  and 
would  probably  arrive  at  the  Board  of  the  Great  Company 
in  time  and  become  a  financial  power.  But  goodness, 
what  was  that  ?  Mummy  never  favoured  Lord  Kempston 
half  as  much  and  he  was  really  rich !  No,  Mummy  must 
like  him.  Let  her.  She,  Cynthia,  jolly  well  didn't; 
that  was  all!  And  she  only  disliked  him  the  more  for 
having  betrayed  her  into  slang  and  general  horridness! 

The  interview  she  had  with  him  when  her  father  was 
convalescent  taught  Cynthia  that  a  young  girl 's  distaste 
for  a  man  of  the  world  who  is  her  lover,  even  though  she 
permit  him  to  see  it,  will  not  necessarily  cause  him  to 
sink  into  the  earth.  Sleek  and  slippery  as  Laurence  was 
— Cynthia's  adjectives,  employed  to  hit  off  a  manner  that 
had  charm  without  much  genuineness — he  had  the  knack 
of  holding  her  attention  by  deft  personal  flatteries  and 
cajoleries,  which  she  would  have  known  how  to  cut  short 
from  another  but  was  strangely  unable  to  deal  with  in 
the  case  of  Laurence.  He  aroused  the  worst  in  her  with 
skill,  forced  her  to  flirt  without  understanding  she  was 
flirting,  and  occasionally  to  behave  in  a  manner  that 
would  have  horrified  Lady  Bremner.  In  fact,  to  declare 
the  truth  with  bluntness,  he  was  employing  the  tricks  of 
a  seducer;  by  no  means  an  uncommon  occurrence  in  a 
world  where  not  a  few  men  acquire  a  very  subtle  knowl- 
edge of  the  inexperience  of  girls.  Cynthia  was  inno- 
cent; she  guessed  rightly  that  the  man  loved  her  with 
the  best  in  him  as  well  as  the  worst ;  and  she  was  thor- 


THE  WINGS  OF  YOUTH  35 

oughly  feminine  and  youthful.  It  was  not  surprising 
that  a  man  of  considerable  ability,  tremendously  in 
earnest,  should  exercise  a  certain  control  over  their  re- 
lations when  alone.  Laurence  was  aiming  all  the  time 
at  the  development  of  precisely  that  kind  of  influence 
over  her  which  Shaun  was  anxious  to  avoid.  He  was 
attacking  her  physical  unconsciousness,  playing  with  her 
ignorance,  seeking  to  arouse  passion  which  should  mas- 
querade as  love,  and  he  was  doing  it  not  for  a  black- 
guardly purpose,  but  because  he  knew  nothing  better, 
being  like  most  of  his  type  a  materialist,  and  therefore 
blind.  He  believed  that  real  love  would  come  after 
marriage,  ignorant  of  how  Cynthia  would  have  grown  to 
hate  him. 

On  the  occasion  referred  to  above  he  had  been  angling 
in  vain  for  an  invitation  to  join  the  family  holiday  at 
Tintagel,  where  Sir  Everard  was  to  recuperate  for  a  few 
weeks  in  July.  It  was  the  Bremner  custom  to  go  away 
together,  and  amiably  inclined  as  Lady  Bremner  might 
be  towards  Laurence  she  did  not  intend  to  compromise 
herself  to  the  extent  of  inviting  him  on  her  own  re- 
sponsibility alone.  If  Rosemary  asked  for  him  that  would 
be  a  different  matter.  And  Laurence,  who  guessed  this, 
went  too  far. 

"I've  always  wanted  to  see  Tintagel,"  he  remarked 
casually,  fixing  his  eyes  on  Cynthia.  ' '  I  might  take  the 
opportunity  of  your  being  there  to  run  down  for  a  few 
days." 

Cynthia  looked  away.  ' '  It 's  a  long  journey, ' '  she  said 
doubtfully,  but  added  from  politeness,  "I'm  told  there 
are  awfully  good  hotels."  She  was  saying  to  herself, 
"Cynthia,  my  child,  you  won't  bathe  if  Laurence  Man 
is  there:  he  would  look  at  you." 

Laurence,  in  his  folly,  chose  that  moment  to  utter  his 
thoughts  aloud.  "I'd  like  to  bathe,"  he  observed. 
"You  swim,  of  course,  Miss  Bremner?" 

"Yes."    Very  unwillingly. 

"Would  you  mind  if  I  came  down  for  a  few  days?" 

The  connection  of  ideas  was  a  trifle  too  obvious,  and 
Cynthia  became  exasperated.  Glances,  and  the  'silent 


36  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

strong  man'  manner,  and  conventional  flirting  she  could 
hot  prevent,  and  was  conscious  that  she  did  not  try  to  as 
much  as  she  ought.  But  the  unconventional  was  mad- 
ness on  Laurence 's  part,  for  it  gave  her  the  opportunity 
to  see  what  lay  beneath. 

"I  should  not  care  either  way,"  she  said,  with  in- 
difference. 

Laurence  did  not  permit  himself  to  be  disconcerted. 

' '  That 's  a  step  in  the  right  direction, ' '  he  commented 
gaily. 

"I'm  afraid  I  was  rude,"  apologised  Cynthia,  now 
overcome  by  compunction.  "Do  forgive  me.  Of  course 
it  would  be  very  pleasant  if  you  came." 

"You  were,"  he  answered  masterfully.  "But  in  any 
case  I  should  have  come. ' ' 

Cynthia  was  child  enough  to  be  surprised  at  this. 

Peter,  who  arrived  just  after  Laurence  had  taken  his 
departure,  could  not  have  chosen  a  happier  opportunity. 
He  looked  pale  and  ill,  a  fit  subject  for  sympathetic 
fussing.  Cynthia 's  heart  went  out  to  him  at  once,  partly 
because  he  was  not  Laurence  and  partly  because  he  was 
what  she  called  'understandable,'  that  is  to  say,  youth- 
ful like  herself ;  and  Lady  Bremner,  who  had  returned  to 
the  drawing-room  when  she  heard  the  front  door  close 
behind  the  favoured  suitor,  placed  him  in  the  most  com- 
fortable armchair  and  overflowed  with  motherly  atten- 
tions. She  felt  genuine  compassion  for  a  male  being 
who  did  not  possess  a  wife  and  a  grown-up  daughter  to 
take  care  of  him ;  so  seizing  a  moment  when  she  and 
Cynthia  were  alone  together  at  the  extreme  end  of  the 
room  engaged  in  search  for  an  illustrated  paper  which 
Mr.  Middleton  must  see  because  it  contained  a  descrip- 
tion of  the  work  of  the  Great  Company,  she  smilingly 
whispered,  "Shall  I  ask  him  to  Tintagel,  darling?" 
' '  Why,  yes ! "  said  Cynthia,  ' '  Mummy,  do ! " 

"I'm  afraid  it  is  gone,"  apologised  Lady  Bremner, 
returning.  "It  had  no  business  to  be  left  in  that  pile 
of  music,  and  I  daresay  one  of  the  maids  has  tidied  it 
away.  Rosemary,  Rosemary!  I  warned  you  to  put  it 
aside. ' ' 


THE  WINGS  OF  YOUTH  37 

Peter  protested  gratitude  and  begged  them  not  to 
bother  themselves  any  more. 

"I  expect  Mr.  Middleton  knows  more  than  the  writer 
of  the  article,"  smiled  Cynthia.  "He's  there  all  day, 
Mummy ! ' ' 

"And  every  day,"  sighed  Peter. 

"Do  you  get  a  good  long  leave  in  the  summer  to  set 
you  up  for  the  winter's  work?"  Lady  Bremner  inquired, 
settling  her  elegant  upright  figure  into  a  low  armchair. 
Cynthia,  with  a  movement  curiously  resembling  her 
mother's,  sank  gracefully  down  upon  a  footstool. 

' '  Rather  not ! ' '  replied  Peter,  watching  the  girl  as  far 
as  he  could  with  politeness.  "Half  of  us  don't  get  a 
summer  holiday  at  all,  Lady  Bremner.  I  happen  this 
year  to  be  one  of  the  lucky  ones,  but  two  years  running 
I  had  to  go  away  in  April.  We  're  supposed  to  get  three 
weeks  and  we  are  only  allowed  to  take  a  fortnight  at  a 
time,  so  it  doesn  't  work  out  to  anything  very  wonderful, 
does  it  ?  Of  course  what  we  call  the  '  Highos, '  the  High 
Officials,  get  more  than  that. ' ' 

Then  came  the  invitation  which  caused  Peter  posi- 
tively to  leap  in  his  chair  for  joy.  He.  imagined  himself 
one  broad  grin  from  ear  to  ear.  ' '  It  '11  be  the  rippingest 
time  I've  ever  had.  Thank  you,  Lady  Bremner,  most 
awfully. ' '  He  might  have  added  that  it  would  be  almost 
his  first  'ripping  time,'  for  Major  Middleton  had  been 
too  poor  for  holiday-making  while  he  was  educating  his 
son,  and  the  few  men  whom  Peter  cared  about  in  the 
Great  Company  had  never  managed  to  get  leave  at  the 
same  time  as  himself. 

"My  niece,  whom  you  met  when  you  dined  with  us, 
and  another  little  cousin  of  Rosemary's,  will  be  with  us. 
Joyce  is  younger.  Her  parents  are  in  India.  Joyce  is 
thirteen,  is  it,  Rosemary?  Or  is  she  fourteen  yet?  I 
think  we  may  call  it  fourteen,  and  be  on  the  safe  side. 
So  it  will  be  a  family  affair,  Mr.  Middleton,  and  we  shall 
be  doing  very  ordinary  holiday  things.  If  you  are  will- 
ing to  join  us  I  know  my  husband  for  one  will  be  de- 
lighted." 

Peter  could  not  help  showing  in  his  countenance  a 


38  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

certain  quizzical  humour  at  this  statement,  which  his 
modesty  did  not  permit  him  to  accept  without  several 
large  grains  of  salt.  By  so  doing  he  ran  into  danger. 
"I'm  glad  Peter  Middleton  has  a  sense  of  comedy," 
thought  Cynthia  severely,  "but  he  must  not  employ  it 
upon  Mother!  I  shall  not  like  him  if  he  does  that." 
However,  Peter  composed  his  features  and  thanked  his 
hostess  with  perfect  propriety.  Soon  after  he  got  up  to 
go,  and  found  Cynthia  grave-lipped  with  but  a  smile  in 
her  eyes.  Her  handclasp  was  warm. 

No  difficulty  was  made  at  the  Office  about  Peter's 
leave,  and  his  application  passed  through  without  com- 
ment, Laurence  signing  it  amongst  a  batch  of  others 
without  glancing  at  the  name  at  the  head  of  the  paper. 
Thenceforth  Peter  was  safe.  The  'society  man'  who 
arbitrated  in  regard  to  gloves  before  the  Bremner's  din- 
ner was  again  consulted  night  after  night,  and  it  was  by 
his  experienced  directions  that  Peter  enlarged  his  ward- 
robe. "Swells  change  their  clothes  pretty  well  when- 
ever they  enter  the  house.  My  boy,  you've  no  idea 
how  many  shirts  you  '11  want.  And  as  for  clean  flannels ! 
Well,  they'll  have  to  be  clean,  that's  all!  If  you  can't 
stand  the  racket  you  '11  have  to  tell  your  hostess  you  can 
only  stay  for  one  week.  The  people  I  go  to  are  a  jolly 
sight  smarter  than  your  lot,  and  I  've  had  to  accept  half 
an  invitation  many  a  time.  It's  all  the  fault  of  being  a 

clerk,  Middleton!  There's  no  chance  of  rising 

at  our  beastly  shop,  I've  always  said  it!  Look  at  our 
salaries,  just  look  at  them!  You  can't  do  much  visiting 
in  the  West  End  on  £120  a  year,  my  boy,"  and  so  on 
interminably.  Peter  put  up  with  a  good  deal  for  the 
sake  of  the  information  he  obtained.  Needless  to  say, 
being  a  boy  of  spirit,  he  drew  his  savings  from  the  bank 
and  bought  clothes  enough  for  the  whole  fortnight; 
and  also  needless  to  say,  he  made  a  great  many  errors 
in  the  course  of  his  work.  It  was  settled  he  was  to 
join  the  Bremners  a  few  days  after  their  arrival ;  until 
then  he  walked  on  air. 

Cynthia  met  Shaun  once  before  they  started  and 
then  only  for  a  few  moments.  His  manner  was  con- 


THE  WINGS  OF  YOUTH  39 

strained,  she  noticed  it  at  once,  and  later  when  alone 
she  was  suddenly  struck  by  an  intuitive  impression  that 
he  was  feeding  himself  insufficiently!  This  was  not  the 
case,  but  her  idea  deserves  to  be  noted  if  only  because 
it  proves  the  insight  of  women  to  be  fallible.  Her  brother 
Alan,  who  was  worrying  over  an  apparently  insoluble 
dilemma  and  starving  himself  in  the  process,  obtained 
neither  sympathy  nor  attention  from  Cynthia,  whose 
perceptions  often  failed  her  where  he  was  concerned. 
She  was,  however,  not  surprised  to  hear  that  Helen 
Taliesin  was  to  stay  with  them  for  a  few  days  at 
Tintagel. 


To  a  clerk  of  the  Great  Company  who  is  an  old  public 
schoolboy  the  first  day  of  holiday  is  more  than  a  release 
from  the  unpleasant,  it  means  the  recovery  of  his  true 
self.  During  months  he  has  been  trying  to  please  his 
superiors  not  only  by  his  work  but  by  his  attitude  to- 
wards it,  striving  hard  to  appear  what  they  wish  him  to 
be,  honest  and  fond  of  figures,  rather  simple,  with  a 
wholesome  admiration  for  those  in  authority  and  their 
sense  of  humour.  He  has  never  forgotten  that  he  could 
not  obtain  so  high  a  salary  elsewhere  (small  though  it- 
appears  in  his  eyes),  because  he  knows  neither  a  trade 
nor  a  profession.  And  he  has  not  doubted  that  the 
Company  is  mindful  of  this,  since  the  Directors  have 
evidently  expected  him  to  feel  gratitude,  and  taking  up 
the  position  that  they  are  paying  for  his  character  as 
well  as  for  his  pen  have  claimed  the  right  to  command 
both  equally.  He  has  been  allowed  some  respectable  in- 
terest, such  as  football  or  religion,  to  occupy  his  spare 
moments  spent  out  of  the  Office,  but  individuality  is 
dangerous  in  their  view.  If  he  possesses  it  he  will  have 
done  wisely  to  keep  the  fact  concealed. 

The  Directors  consider  it  advisable  to  pay  men  of 
education  to  add  up  figures  and  copy  documents;  and 
having  got  them  it  is  necessary  to  break  their  pride  in 
order  to  fit  them  to  be  drudges.  The  victim  cannot 
complain  of  this  policy,  as  he  knows  himself  unfitted  by 
hereditary  instinct  and  imaginative  activity  for  the 
duties  he  is  called  upon  to  perform.  He  is  paid  for 
being  a  gentleman;  but  because  he  has  to  be  broken  in 
to  the  severe  discipline  of  the  Company  he  cannot  be 
treated  like  one:  and  since  an  educated  man  rarely  be- 
comes effective  in  a  monotonous  employment  he  finds 

40 


THE  WINGS  OF  YOUTH  41 

himself  blamed  for  the  possession  of  those  qualities  on 
account  of  which  he  was  formerly  selected.  The  vicious 
circle  is  complete. 

Peter  snuggled  back  into  his  corner,  watched  the  long, 
ugly  platform  glide  by,  and  triumphed  at  the  idea  of 
being  Peter  Middleton  again  all  day  and  every  day  for 
a  whole  long  fortnight.  Unknowingly  he  was  more  than 
recompensed  for  the  drab  discomfort  of  his  method  of 
earning  a  living  by  his  exquisite  thrill  of  happiness  now. 
Salisbury  passed  without  disturbing  his  dream,  and  its 
slender  spire  added  a  soaring  beauty  that  lifted  him 
upward  and  upward  to  ethereal  heights  of  fancy  whence 
he  surveyed  a  fairy-like,  miniature,  glittering  world 
within  the  swoop,  as  it  seemed,  of  a  hand  and  yet  deli- 
cately all-comprehending  and  universal.  Travel  was  in 
it,  and  Art  Galleries,  and  hunting,  and  the  society  of  his 
fellows,  and  comfortable  chambers,  and  the  right  kind  of 
Egyptian  cigarettes;  books  of  philosophy,  and  distin- 
guished men  in  evening  dress  who  let  him  listen,  and 
girls  with  friendly  unconscious  eyes,  and  motor-cars,  and 
The  Studio  and  Blackwood's  and  Punch  and  The  Hib- 
~bert  Journal,  and  a  10-ton  yawl,  and  a  seat  at  the  Opera. 
Luncheon  in  the  hot,  shaking  dining-car  brought  near 
to  him — by  no  skill  of  cookery — the  splendours  of  the 
Ritz  and  intimate  dinners  in  old  Soho;  and  then  the 
tranquillity  of  distant  Exeter,  in  a  clear  sunlit  frame  of 
ballooning  white  clouds  on  a  sky  of  blue,  shifted  his  vision 
to  scenes  of  peace  and  the  fireside,  of  two  armchairs  close 
and  hands  that  seek  each  other,  and  a  bright  crown  of 
hair,  and  the  curve  of  a  dainty  cheek,  and  perhaps  the 
bend  of  a  graceful  neck  that  he  knew.  Then  came  Oke- 
hampton ;  and  the  moor,  the  great  unfamiliar,  threaten- 
ing, magic  expanse,  drew  his  thoughts  out  upon  its  waste 
and  his  eyes  to  the  carriage  window,  and  thenceforward 
Peter  gazed  at  the  harrying  show  and  forgot  to  dream. 

At  last  the  train  rumbled  to  a  standstill  in  Camelford 
Station ;  Peter,  getting  out,  saw  Sir  Everard  in  summer 
clothes  waiting  by  the  barrier,  with  a  young  girl  at  his 
side.  Outside  were  a  number  of  wagonettes  which,  now 
that  the  train  was  in,  commenced  to  fill  with  passengers 


42  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

and  luggage.  "Tintagel,  Boseastle,  or  Camelford,  sir?" 
asked  the  porter  who  had  Peter's  trunk.  "What  hotel, 
please?" 

"Tintagel.  I'm  with  this  gentleman,"  explained 
Peter,  as  they  approached  Sir  Everard. 

"Glad  to  see  you!"  said  the  latter  with  a  sort  of 
curt  goodwill.  "Put  that  up  in  front,  porter.  You 
haven't  met  my  niece  Joyce  Ommanney  before,  have  you, 
Middleton?  Here  she  is.  Joyce,  this  is  Mr.  Middleton. " 
A  pair  of  oblique,  wise,  dark  eyes  looked  into  Peter's, 
and  he  got  an  impression  of  a  mane  of  nut-brown  di- 
shevelled hair,  a  cinnamon-coloured  cotton  dress,  fine, 
slender  tan  legs,  and  gym-shoes.  Joyce  might  be  only 
fourteen,  but  her  eyes  had  a  glint  in  them  that  told  of 
mischief,  and  Peter  with  a  flash  of  insight  foresaw  what 
a  critic  she  would  be  of  him  and  Phyllis!  There  was 
nothing  unkind  about  the  face.  From  the  beginning 
he  liked  Joyce  and  knew  that  she  would  be  his  friend 
with  Cynthia. 

"How  do  you  do?"  she  said,  shyly  but  with  the  air 
of  well-mannered  self-possession  that  a  good  school 
teaches;  and  then  they  all  climbed  into  the  wagonette 
and  were  driven  off  in  the  warm  summer  sunshine  down 
a  long  white  road,  with  another  vehicle  clattering  ahead 
of  them.  At  first  they  talked  the  usual  travellers'  talk, 
which  soon  died  away  into  a  silence  that  was  not  oppres- 
sive. ' '  Here 's  Cornwall, ' '  said  Sir  Everard  with  a  glance 
at  the  boy's  happy  face.  "Look  at  it,  Middleton.  We 
won't  interrupt."  He  seemed  more  human,  less  impos- 
ing than  in  London,  though  his  countenance  was  still 
sternly  set  and  its  expression  impenetrable.  Joyce  was 
watching  Peter  openly  with  a  schoolgirl's  curiosity. 

The  upland  air  came  to  Peter  fresh  with  the  scent  of 
hay.  It  was  cordial  like  wine,  sweet  to  breathe  after 
London's  soot  and  petrol,  and  very  friendly.  This 
Cornish  breeze  spoke  of  the  cool  embrace  of  the  salt, 
green  sea;  the  souls  of  many  fragrant  flowers  flitted  in 
it;  and  it  was  blowing  direct  from  white-piled  clouds 
on  an  azure  sky.  Soon  it  wafted  the  Great  Company 
from  Peter's  mind,  cleaning  out  the  chinks  and  crevices 


THE  WINGS  OF  YOUTH  43 

and  dropping  the  lumber  far  off  in  the  land  of  memory. 
He  felt  a  sunny  content. 

Through  the  dust  which  rose  behind  the  wagonette  he 
saw  the  ragged  outline  of  distant  Roughtor,  a  dark  sum- 
mit upon  the  horizon,  which  called  to  him  with  a  mag- 
ical voice  that  he  vowed  some  day  to  answer.  Then 
to  the  left,  in  front,  came  a  glimpse  of  a  tender,  sapphire 
sea  between  two  rounded  bluffs;  the  sign-post  pointing 
thither  said,  "Trebarwith  Strand."  They  swung  on, 
and  turned  inland  down  a  long,  black,  winding  gorge, 
craggy  with  slaty  rocks  and  great  walls  piled  by  the 
quarrymen  long  ago;  ferns  grew  upon  its  precipitous 
sides  and  bushes  of  golden  gorse.  All  the  way  a  leaping 
brook  made  haste  to  race  them,  wagtails  dropped  and 
made  little  darting  flights  like  black-and-white  flashes  of 
joy,  and  in  every  thicket  a  thrush  or  a  robin  was  sing- 
ing. And  now  the  quarry  walls  towered  above  the  road ; 
and  beyond  on  the  left-hand  side  was  a  puffing  of  steam 
and  the  sound  of  machinery,  which  told  that  slate  was 
actually  being  worked  there.  Peter  closed  his  eyes  as 
they  rattled  by. 

Up  a  steep  hill  they  reached  an  inn,  which  claims  to 
be  in  Tintagel.  Peter,  like  all  newcomers,  was  deceived 
until  Sir  Everard  called  to  tell  him  that  this  was  Trewar- 
mett.  Riding  on,  they  passed  through  a  little  hamlet 
with  a  glorious  view  of  cliff  and  sea,  and  across  the  open 
down  began  to  meet  scattered  houses,  some  common  and 
bare — productions  these  of  modern  Cornish  architecture, 
than  which  there  is  none  uglier — some  old,  with  twisted 
chimneys  and  tiny  gardens  bright  with  hollyhocks  and 
fuchsias  and  Padstow's  Pride.  Away  on  the  cliff  was  a 
huge  castellated  building  with  battlements.  "What's 
that?"  Peter  exclaimed.  "The  great  house  over 
there?"  "An  hotel,"  said  Sir  Everard  drily.  "They 
call  it  the  'King  Arthur's  Castle.'  Irving  used  to  stay 
there."  In  a  few  more  minutes  they  stopped  at  the 
head  of  a  village  street  before  a  double-fronted  house 
with  mullioned  windows.  Cynthia  came  out  of  the  porch, 
and  Peter's  heart  leapt  in  greeting. 

"Hullo,  Daddy!"  she  cried,  running  down  the  path 


44  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

towards  them.  "How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Middleton? 
Daddy,  Alan's  come !  He's  got  a  bedroom  at  the  Wharn- 
eliffe.  His  friends  have  gone  on  to  Bude.  They  wouldn't 
dine  with  us  after  all." 

"My  son  motored  here  from  Penzance, "  Sir  Everard 
informed  Peter.  "Where's  little  Phyllis,  Polly?"  He 
opened  the  wagonette  door  and  descended. 

' '  She 's  dressing  for  dinner  already, ' '  returned  Cynthia 
with  the  slightest  tilt  upward  of  the  corners  of  her 
pretty  mouth.  Peter  in  the  act  of  getting  down  heard 
a  chuckle  behind  him,  but  on  turning  he  saw  Joyce 
perfectly  demure.  She  jumped  hurriedly  to  the  ground 
in  order  to  avoid  taking  his  hand. 

"Is  she  indeed?  You  go  in,  Middleton.  I'll  look 
after  the  luggage." 

"Dinner  is  at  seven,"  explained  Cynthia,  leading  Peter 
into  the  house.  "Will  you  have  tea  or  whisky  or  some- 
thing, in  the  meantime?" 

Lady  Bremner,  who  encountered  them  in  the  hall, 
overheard  this  comprehensive  invitation.  "You  must 
certainly  have  a  cup  of  tea,"  she  said,  shaking  hands. 
' '  Rosemary,  tea  is  in  the  drawing-room,  waiting  for  Mr. 
Middleton.  Will  you  pour  it  out  for  him,  please  ?  I  've 
undertaken  to  advise  Phyllis — my  niece  Phyllis  Peto, 
whom  you  took  in  when  you  dined  with  us — as  to  an 
alteration  in  an  evening  frock,  so  you  must  excuse  me, 
if  you  will. ' '  And,  graciously  smiling,  she  proceeded  on 
her  way  upstairs. 

Cornish  air  and  the  society  of  Joyce  appeared  to  have 
demoralised  quiet  Cynthia.  "Alan  had  whisky,"  she 
remarked  doubtfully,  looking  at  Peter. 

Lady  Bremner  glanced  over  her  shoulder,  mur- 
mured, "Alan  had  been  motoring,  dear!"  and  disap- 
peared. 

' '  Alan  had  two  large  whacks. ' '  This  from  Joyce  in  a 
discreet  aside.  "And  I  know  where  the  decanter  is, 
if  you  want  it,  Rosie. " 

"Don't  call  me  Rosie!"  said  Cynthia,  almost  with 
crossness,  for  she  was  oddly  discomposed  by  her  rebuke 
before  the  new  guest.  She  led  the  way  into  the  drawing- 


THE  WINGS  OF  YOUTH  45 

room,  adding,  "It's  bad  enough  for  That  One  to  call  me 
so.  I  won't  let  you  as  well,  Joyce!" 

"  'That  One'  is  my  name  for  Cousin  Phyllis.  Don't 
you  think  it's  a  jolly  name?"  inquired  Joyce,  with  a 
twinkle  at  Peter. 

"I  had  not  even  found  out  she  was  called  Peto,  al- 
though I  Ve  taken  her  in  to  dinner.  I  don 't  know  much 
about  her  yet,"  Peter  replied  cautiously. 

"Phyllis  doesn't  need  a  surname,"  observed  Joyce  in 
a  negligent  tone. 

Cynthia's  face  had  cleared.  "Shut  up,  kid, "  she  said. 
"And  forgive  me  for  being  angry  just  now." 

Joyce  looked  at  her  gravely.  ' '  "When  we  're  alone  you 
are  frightfully  decent  to  me  and  treat  me  like  a  girl  of 
your  own  age,  Cynthia.  I'm  rather  shocked  that  you 
should  call  me  'kid'  just  to  show  off  before  Mr.  Middle- 
ton."  But  seeing  Cynthia  turn  scarlet  she  added  a 
contrite,  "I'm  sorry,  Cyn!"  and  ran  out  of  the  room 
with  averted  face. 

"Now  she'll  weep!"  compassionated  Cynthia,  rising, 
and  then  she  seated  herself  again.  ' '  We  're  awfully  good 
chums  really,  and  now  I've  gone  and  made  a  beast  of 
myself.  Won't  you  have  another  cup  of  tea?  Do  let 
me  give  you  another!" 

"I  wish  you'd  go  to  her,"  Peter  jerked  out,  conscious 
as  he  uttered  it  that  the  phrase  had  an  unfortunate  double 
meaning.  "I  won't  have  any  more  tea,  thank  you." 

Cynthia  became  radiant.  "Oh,  do  you  mind?"  she 
said.  "I  can  put  it  right  if  I  can  only  catch  her  at 
once !  Give  me  your  keys  and  I  '11  set  some  one  to  work 
unpacking. ' ' 

Peter  rose  too.  "I'd  rather  do  it  myself,"  he  said 
nervously,  "if  you  don't  mind  pointing  out  my  room." 

Dinner  added  to  the  impression  of  a  relaxed  discipline 
and  a  holiday  merriment  in  the  family  atmosphere. 
Cynthia,  in  a  silvery  gown,  was  laughing  at  very  small 
jokes;  Phyllis,  in  a  daring  frock  of  yellow,  rendered 
innocuous  by  the  discreet  counsel  of  Lady  Bremner, 
chattered  loudly;  and  Joyce,  in  pale  blue  with  a  hair- 
ribbon  of  the  same  colour,  was  demure,  nicely  behaved, 


46  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

and  natural.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life  Peter  forgot 
to  be  disconcerted  by  the  proximity  of  ladies  in  evening 
dress,  he  forgot  to  be  shy,  he  forgot  to  imitate  the  choice 
of  dishes  of  his  next-door  neighbour,  and  took  wine 
boldly,  and  joined  modestly  and  cheerfully  in  the  general 
conversation.  Sir  Everard  glanced  at  him  once  or  twice, 
and  sent  along  the  salted  almonds,  causing  Peter  to 
remember  with  a  start  of  surprise  that  he  had  eaten 
almonds  in  Portman  Square — did  nothing  then  escape 
his  host?  The  little  byplay  was  observed  by  Cynthia, 
beaming  upon  the  success  of  her  new  friend  with  soft 
laughter  and  merry  words;  and  it  gladdened  her  heart, 
for  it  meant  that  her  father  approved. 

Everything  was  perfect  that  first  evening  of  Peter's 
holiday,  perfect  the  beauty  and  gentleness  of  the  girl  he 
was  beginning  to  love,  perfect  the  setting  in  which  he 
found  her.  The  Bremners  had  an  environment  as  suitable 
to  them  as  Portman  Square,  for  the  house  they  had  taken 
was  artistic  in  design  and  furnished  harmoniously.  It 
possessed  a  lawn  of  smooth  green  turf,  and  arched  walks 
with  rambler  roses,  and  red  valerian  on  the  walls  of  the 
garden.  An  old  figure-head,  representing  a  helmed  war- 
rior, stood  close  by  the  porch.  Not  far  away  in  the 
corner  was  a  rockery  of  white  quartz,  with  branching 
ferns,  visible  from  Peter's  seat  at  the  dinner-table. 

And  the  Bremners  were  serene  and  expectant  of  pleas- 
ure, a  united  family,  forgetful  that  Love,  the  sower  of 
discord,  was  in  their  midst.  Alan,  haggard  from  fasting 
and  sorrow,  had  for  the  moment  driven  Helen  Taliesin 
from  his  thoughts,  Cynthia  knew  not  the  minds  of  dis- 
tant Laurence  and  Shaun,  and  Peter  she  did  not  con- 
sider a  possible  lover.  She  had  settled  his  place  in  her 
affections  and  intended  to  bind  him  there,  a  lifelong 
friend.  So  she  was  at  ease  and  her  parents  likewise,  for 
truth  to  say  they  understood  not  much  that  was  passing 
before  their  eyes.  Alan  had  been  ill;  their  daughter 
was  too  young  to  marry.  Alan  had  character  and  could 
be  relied  upon;  Rosemary  had  romantic  ideas,  but  she 
was  a  sensible  girl  as  well  as  a  pretty  one,  and  after 
all  Mr.  James  was  a  gentleman.  He  would  know  they 


THE  WINGS  OF  YOUTH  47 

intended  a  better  match  for  her.  As  for  the  attractive 
boy,  let  him  replace  Shaun  James.  He,  most  certainly, 
could  not  think  of  marriage. 

Peter's  excitement  increased  as  the  evening  flew  by. 
Rain  drove  him  back  when  he  went  to  the  porch,  but 
inside  came  discovery  after  discovery.  Cynthia  could 
sing  and  play ;  she  was  fascinating  as  she  did  each.  Her 
voice  was  a  light  soprano,  sweet  and  ringing;  she  sang 
ballads  that  her  mother  asked  for,  indifferent  as  to  the 
choice.  He  decided  she  was  not  really  musical;  but 
how  lovely  her  arms  looked  as  she  played,  and  no  girl 
ever  had  so  dear  a  face!  Alan  chaffed  Phyllis  out  of 
her  avowed  intention  of  dancing,  at  which  Sir  Everard 
seemed  relieved.  Phyllis  was  inclined  to  hang  round 
the  men ;  she  had  a  stern  critic  in  Joyce,  who  kept  watch 
on  every  one  and  was  silent.  And  Alan  himself  was  a 
good  chap.  What  had  made  Peter  misjudge  the  man  in 
London?  Why,  he  was  as  friendly  as  could  be. 

When  it  was  time  to  light  candles  and  go  to  bed,  how 
interesting  to  note  the  various  handshakes,  from  the 
firm  grip  of  Alan  and  the  steady  clasp  of  his  father  to 
Cynthia's  warm  pressure,  and  the  hot  hand  of  Phyllis 
drooping  from  a  curved  wrist,  and  the  dry  fingers  of 
Lady  Bremner,  and  Joyce's  shy  little  paw.  Had  he 
grasped  Cynthia's  hand  too  hard?  Her  eyes  had  been 
fearlessly  gazing  into  his  and  suddenly  a  shiver  had 
passed  over  their  grey  depths  like  a  ruffle  of  wind  on  a 
calm  sea-pool.  .  .  .  Peter  was  dreaming  in  his  room,  and 
now  drew  near  to  the  window.  Yes,  her  eyes  were  like 
sparkling  clear  sea-water  .  .  .  what  a  pity  his  hands 
were  so  strong!  He  did  not  mean  to  hurt  her  .  .  .  but 
she  was  not  elusive  like  water,  she  was  steadfast. 

There  was  a  balcony  outside,  accessible  if  the  window 
was  flung  wide-open.  In  a  moment  he  had  stepped  into 
a  gorgeous  night  of  stars  whose  queen,  a  slender  slip  of 
a  moon,  rode  naked  across  the  deep  blue  firmament, 
shining  high  and  conqueringly.  The  odour  of  the  moist 
earth  and  of  flowers  ascended  to  his  nostrils,  the  sea 
murmured  along  the  strand,  the  beating  was  the  beating 
of  his  heart.  "Cynthia  is  my  name,"  called  the  maiden 


48  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

moon,  but  the  constellations  leaned  from  their  thrones 
and  whispered :  ' '  She  is  one  of  us !  Your  love  is  a  Star 
dwelling  amongst  men.  In  her  eyes  is  our  light,  to 
remind  the  forgetful  of  Space  and  of  God."  They  swept 
down  on  Peter  in  a  great  rush  of  flying  splendour  and 
he  woke  from  his  reverie  blinded,  and  the  night  breeze 
was  lifting  his  hair. 

"I  will  think  of  her  as  Star,  if  I  may  not  speak  the 
name,"  thought  Peter,  rubbing  his  eyes  to  bring  back 
his  wits  again.  He  discovered  the  Greater  Bear  and 
traced  the  glimmering  Pole  Star,  admired  the  sheen  of 
the  Milky  Way,  flung  like  a  soft  veil  over  the  dusk-blue 
sky,  and  began  in  idleness  to  count  the  myriad  sparks. 
What  if  the  soul  should  pass  a  lifetime  in  each  of  these 
worlds  in  its  pilgrim's  course  across  eternity?  Shaun 
James  believed  this;  he  said  so  in  his  books.  But  was 
it  good?  Did  he  glory  in  it  when  confronted  by  the 
open,  or  in  a  lamplit  study?  The  aspect  of  the  high 
dome  of  heaven  seemed  threatening  to  Peter,  its  spacious- 
ness was  empty,  its  fiery  globes  each  an  abode  of  lonely 
woe.  Reaction  gripped  and  tore  him. 

Memory  and  faith  in  Shaun,  better  still  knowledge  of 
his  sweet,  particular  Star,  supplied  the  true  answer  to 
the  terrible  doubt.  Finer  work,  more  wisdom,  greater 
love !  From  world  to  world  a  progress,  from  life  to 
life  an  ascent!  Up  the  shining  ladder  of  night  leaped 
the  imagination  of  the  boy  to  find  God,  where  his  ardent 
soul  would  one  day  meet  Him  face  to  face. 


VI 

THE  village  street  of  Trevena,  now  called  Tintagel,  is 
wide  and  straight,  and  down  it  in  the  summer  months  go 
boys  with  clattering  milk-pails,  American  ladies,  motor- 
cars, flocks  of  sheep,  sunburnt,  long-stepping  men  visi- 
tors, girls  with  bare  heads  and  ankles  and  suburban  ac- 
cents, girls  in  motor  veils  and  cloaks,  old  women  in  sun- 
bonnets,  the  postman,  dogs,  cats,  and  occasional  chickens, 
attractive  family  parties  like  the  Bremners,  Cornish 
'tackers'  and  '1'il  maidens'  on  their  way  to  school,  and 
also  flocks  of  crows  and  jackdaws,  with  sometimes,  rar- 
est of  all,  a  red-beaked,  red-legged  chough.  Brakes  and 
wagonettes  stop  at  the  Wharncliffe  Hotel  at  the  top  of 
the  street,  except  those  bound  for  the  great  caravanserai 
beloved  of  Irving,  which  is  out  of  sight  of  the  village 
and  does  not  disturb  its  country  peace. 

Between  nine  and  ten  is  the  time  when  the  resident 
visitors  begin  to  make  their  appearance  with  towels  and 
bathing-costumes,  walking-sticks  and  bags  of  saffron 
buns;  the  luxurious  carry  novels  and  cushions,  but  few 
spades  or  pails  are  to  be  seen,  as  the  nearest  sands  are 
over  a  mile  away  at  Bossiney  and  there  is  only  shingle  at 
Tintagel  Cove.  It  was  9.30  exactly  when  Cynthia  ran 
in  to  the  Wharncliffe  to  fetch  Alan.  Breakfast  had  been 
eaten,  and  various  minor  points  in  regard  to  the  girls' 
attire  dealt  with  by  Lady  Bremner  in  private,  and  Peter 
was  already  impatient  to  be  off,  not  having  learnt  that 
ladies  must  not  be  hurried  since  there  is  usually  a  reason 
for  their  delays.  On  this  occasion  it  was  the  contumacy 
of  Phyllis  that  detained  the  party.  She  had  twice  been 
sent  upstairs  to  put  on  stockings  and  had  returned  each 
time  with  a  shorter  skirt  and  a  more  open  blouse ;  this 
perversity  being  displayed  after  she  had  obtained  the 

49 


50  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

concession  of  wearing  no  hat!  The  third  time,  when 
she  changed  into  a  discreet  blouse  with  transparent 
sleeves — but  they  are  usual — and  quite  a  lengthy  skirt 
and  pinned  a  smart  white  hat  on  her  black  ropes  of  hair, 
and  came  down  still  with  pretty  ankles  bare,  she  won  a 
victory.  "You  are  nineteen,  as  you  say,  Phyllis,"  said 
Lady  Bremner,  "but  it  is  my  consolation  that  you  look 
sixteen.  You  may  do  as  you  wish  this  once,  and  I'll 
talk  it  over  with  you  in  your  room  to-night."  Which 
made  the  rebel  somewhat  ill  at  ease,  filling  her  with 
uncomfortable  forebodings. 

Cynthia  and  Joyce  were  hatless  as  a  result  of  their 
cousin's  impudence,  Lady  Bremner  having  given  general 
permission  for  the  abandonment  of  headgear.  Other- 
wise they  were  daintily  seemly,  like  illustrations  from 
the  summer  number  of  a  ladies'  paper,  only  prettier 
and  in  drawing.  Alan  was  wearing  white  flannels, 
Peter  too  had  blossomed  out  into  his  best.  They  made 
a  handsome  group  of  young  people  in  front  of  the 
Wharncliffe  in  the  morning  sunshine,  and  deserved  the 
admiration  they  won  from  good  Mrs.  Fry  in  the  door- 
way opposite.  Then  Sir  Everard  appeared  with  his 
trout  rod  and  creel  and  set  off  inland,  after  a  rueful 
glance  round  the  clear  horizon ;  and  finally  Lady  Brem- 
ner in  grey  under  a  pearl-tinted  sunshade  joined  the 
others.  ' '  I  think  1 11  saunter  in  the  direction  of  Daddy 's 
stream,"  she  said.  "I  hope  you'll  take  Mr.  Middleton 
round  the  Island,  Alan,  when  you  go."  Alan  had  a 
guide-book  under  his  arm,  concerning  which  mischievous 
signals  had  been  exchanged  between  Joyce  and  Cynthia. 

"We're  not  going  there  till  this  afternoon,"  Cynthia 
said. 

"We're  going  everywhere  this  morning  and  we'll  show 
him  everything,"  Phyllis  cried  at  the  same  moment. 

"When  you've  done!"  observed  Alan.  "Mother, 
you  may  reply  on  our  doing  our  duty  by  King  Arthur. 
Girls,  if  Mother  is  bound  in  the  opposite  direction,  we'd 
better  be  making  a  start.  Have  one  of  mine,  Middle- 
ton;  Turkish  on  the  left,  Virginian  on  the  right.  Why 
on  earth  we  don't  keep  a  dog  I  can't  imagine.  Five 


THE  WINGS  OF  YOUTH  51 

people  without  a  terrier  look  utterly  lonesome!  Joyce, 
will  you  be  our  puppy?  Frisk  a  little,  dear,  and  wag 
your  pigtail!" 

"I  haven't  got  a  pigtail,"  said  Joyce  good-naturedly, 
"otherwise  I  would  with  pleasure.  My  locks  are  still 
unconfined,  but  I've  grown  out  of  twisting  them  into  a 
tail,  I  can  jolly  well  tell  you!" 

"Phyllis,  my  only  love,  you've  forgotten  your  stock- 
ings. Fie,  in  the  public  street !  Rosemary,  you  're  look- 
ing very  nice.  You  are  a  credit  to  your  brother.  Hullo, 
what 's  this  ?  It 's  uncommonly  fine ! ' ' 

They  were  halfway  down  the  street  by  this  time,  come 
to  a  halt  before  an  ancient  house  with  pointed  gables 
and  dormer  windows,  very  quaint  and  beautiful,  erected 
in  the  days  when  craftsmen  were  artists  and  builders 
were  honoured  by  kings.  It  stood  between  the  grey 
slate  cottages,  its  neighbours,  like  a  knight  between 
peasants. 

"Date,  please,  Joyce?"  said  Alan,  consulting  the 
guidebook.  "Out  with  it  like  a  good  girl.  Get  it  right 
first  time." 

"1912,"  returned  Joyce  promptly,  amid  laughter. 

' '  All  right,  young  woman !  I  '11  keep  my  information 
to  myself.  You'll  never  know  now  when  that  splendid 
house  was  built.  It's  the  old  Post  Office,  and  opposite 
is  the  new  Post  Office  to  prove  that  we  are  descended 
from  apes." 

"It  is  lovely,"  said  Cynthia,  wistfully. 

"True,  oh  Princess!  And  you're  quite  right  not  to 
make  a  song  about  it.  Phyllis,  leave  my  Baedeker  alone. 
The  red  paint  comes  off  when  small  girls  touch  it.  It's 
a  misogynist." 

They  were  walking  on,  and  Phyllis  had  dropped  be- 
hind with  Peter,  who  was  by  no  means  willing;  but 
Cynthia  had  kept  close  to  Alan's  side  and  Joyce  was 
avoiding  "That  One,"  so  he  had  no  chance  of  escape. 

"I'm  not  a  small  girl,"  cried  indignant  Phyllis,  ceas- 
.ing  her  attempts  to  prise  the  Baedeker  from  under 
Alan's  arm  and  falling  back  a  step  to  Peter. 

"You  behave  like  one  and  are  clothed  like  one  and 


52  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

look  like  one" — as  they  turned  to  the  left  down  a  steep 
lane. 

"I'm  sure  my  skirt  is  long  enough.  Isn't  it,  Rosie? 
If  Aunt  Emmeline  passed  it  I'm  sure  you  needn't  say 
anything,  Alan!  And  if  you  are  going  to  be  horrid 
about  my  looking  young,  I  shall  let  my  hair  down,  so 
there!" 

The  minx  followed  up  her  words  with  deeds.  She 
gave  Peter  her  hat  to  hold  and  stood  still,  pretty  elbows 
upflung  and  swift,  white  hands  busy  in  the  black  masses 
of  her  hair  detaching  pins  and  preparing  the  coils  for  an 
effective  descent.  Then,  with  a  toss  of  the  head,  her 
fingers  leapt  clear,  and  a  long  cataract  rippled  and  rolled 
to  below  her  waist.  With  a  glance  at  Peter  as  much  as 
to  say,  "Look  at  that,  now,"  she  pushed  away  some 
loose  strands  that  had  fallen  across  her  face,  and,  taking 
the  hat,  pinned  it  soberly  to  her  belt;  and  off  they 
started  again.  Peter  set  a  good  stiff  pace.  However 
willing  he  might  have  been  in  other  circumstances  to  flirt 
with  a  maiden  of  a  'coming-on'  disposition,  he  certainly 
did  not  desire  to  do  so  when  the  alternative  was  walk- 
ing with  Cynthia.  He  agreed  with  the  comment  of 
Joyce,  overheard  as  they  caught  up  the  others  at  the  foot 
of  the  hill,  ' '  That  One  is  a  regular  kitten  to-day. ' '  He 
did  not  wish  to  play  with  kittens.  Men  who  had  fallen 
in  love  needed  to  be  left  alone  with  their  thoughts,  if 
they  couldn  't  be  with  the  right  girl.  His  thoughts  moved 
very  swiftly  as  he  strode  down  the  slope.  In  six  paces 
he  settled  the  exact  moment  at  which  he  had  begun  to 
be  in  love;  it  was  when  Cynthia  appeared  in  the  porch 
on  his  arrival.  Also  he  had  had  time  to  speculate  on 
the  nature  of  his  passion  and  to  wonder  why  he  had 
selected  this  particular  young  woman,  out  of  the  millions 
who  crowd  this  earth,  for  an  adoration  that  was  different 
from  anything  he  had  felt  before.  Looking  up  and 
seeing  her  standing  in  front  of  him  he  ceased  to  wonder. 
She  was  tall,  and  white  and  cool  as  a  lily.  Deep  down 
in  his  heart  something  said  that  he  truly  loved  her. 
His  surface  mind  was  aware  of  a  vivid,  sparkling  happi- 
ness induced  by  emotion,  an  ecstasy  of  joy,  in  which  the 


THE  WINGS  OF  YOUTH  53 

landscape  danced  and  shimmered,  the  sky's  fiery  blue 
was  a  benison,  the  song  of  birds  an  invocation  to  thanks- 
giving, all  on  his  behalf,  all  because  this  one  girl  existed 
and  he  was  privileged  to  be  near  her.  But  underneath 
the  roseate  glow  there  was  a  true,  small  flame  flickering 
in  the  soul  of  Peter  Middleton;  and  he  was  beginning 
to  be  dimly  conscious  of  his  soul,  and  how  the  flame 
would  cause  him  to  become  a  participator  in  life  instead 
of  a  spectator,  as  soon  as  it  burnt  high  and  clear.  For 
this  was  the  Love  that  is  knowledge  of  God. 

' '  The  vicarage  pigeon-cote  is  Norman, ' '  read  out  Alan. 
"It's  that  round  massive  structure  over  the  wall.  The 
Normans  seem  to  have  built  fairly  solidly." 

"The  roof  is  ingenious,"  said  Peter. 

"I  like  the  holes  all  round  so  that  each  pigeon  can 
have  its  own  front  door,"  cried  Cynthia. 

"And  a  slate  for  each  to  sit  upon,  outside.  The 
Normans  were  evidently  kind  to  animals.  The  Vicarage 
is  a  decent  house,  eh,  Rose?  Shall  I  enter  the  Church 
and  have  a  try  for  it  ? " 

"Alan  isn't  kind  to  kittens,"  said  Phyllis  to  no  one 
in  particular,  and  under  cover  of  the  general  applause 
she  tucked  her  arm  into  his  and  led  him  on  in  triumph. 
"You  know  you  can't  resist  me,  old  Alan!"  she  was 
overheard  to  say  coaxingly,  and  over  her  shoulder  came, 
"Not  that  I  forgive  you  for  calling  me  a  kitten,  Joyce 
dear!" 

"Can  I  not  resist  you?"  demanded  Alan,  but  he  al- 
lowed himself  to  be  led  away,  nevertheless. 

' '  That  One  was  not  born  to  be  drowned, ' '  was  Joyce 's 
sententious  comment.  "No  wonder  she  has  not  learned 
to  swim." 

' '  She 's  afraid  to  wet  her  hair.  That 's  the  real  reason, ' ' 
said  Cynthia,  as  they  toiled  together  up  the  hill.  Joyce 
plucked  a  blade  of  grass  and  began  to  chew  it,  with  a 
side  glance  at  her  companion  to  see  whether  she  might 
venture.  "You  may  eat  leaves  or  anything  you  like, 
so  long  as  you  don't  tease  me,"  Cynthia  told  her.  "I 
don 't  feel  like  being  teased  to-day.  I  want  a  long,  quiet 
chat  with  Alan  about  something  particular,  and  I  can't 


54  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

get  hold  of  him.  Please,  Mr.  Middleton,  will  you  help  ? 
If  I  tell  my  cousin  she  '11  only  hang  round  all  the  rest  of 
the  day  and  ask  questions. ' ' 

"Of  course  I  will,"  consented  Peter,  sorely  disap- 
pointed all  the  same. 

"Take  him  to  the  island  this  afternoon,"  suggested 
Joyce. 

"Can't.  We're  going  to  look  for  choughs'  nests,  the 
whole  lot  of  us." 

They  came  out  on  a  green  down,  and  the  sound  of  the 
sea  met  them,  ascending  from  three  hundred  feet  below 
beyond  the  weather-beaten  old  church  of  St.  Materiana, 
whose  grey  tower  stands  sentinel  on  the  edge  of  Christen- 
dom. Tossing,  foam-flecked  billows  were  hurling  them- 
selves unceasingly  against  the  great  cliff,  falling  back 
again  with  a  deep  roar  of  disappointed  wrath,  and  swirl- 
ing and  lashing  themselves  into  a  frenzy,  and  swooping 
forward  once  more  to  a  new  assault.  The  churchyard 
was  not  a  quiet  place.  Alan  and  Phyllis  had  entered  the 
gate,  so  the  rest  followed,  and  passing  between  the  bat- 
tered tombstones  they  wondered  at  the  might  of  the 
winds  that  could  force  these  heavy  slabs  of  granite 
from  the  perpendicular.  Alan  waited  for  them  and  said, 
"If  I  had  a  grave  here  that  I  cared  for,  I'd  come  up 
on  stormy  nights  and  sit  on  the  stone." 

"You'd  be  blown  away  too!"  screamed  Phyllis,  which 
caused  Joyce  to  laugh  unkindly. 

"What  has  'That  One'  done  to  you?"  Peter  had  the 
curiosity  to  inquire,  surprised  at  the  anger  in  her  mirth. 

"I'm  only  a  kid,  but  I  hate  seeing  a  girl  go  on  like 
that,"  replied  fierce  young  Joyce. 

The  interior  of  the  church  was  dark  and  gloomy. 
They  examined  an  ancient  font,  which  received  but 
cursory  attention  from  the  three  girls,  who  were  eager 
for  sunlight  and  fresh  air.  Alan  and  Peter  lingered  a 
moment  and  then  joined  them,  and  in  that  second  Peter 
found  time  to  murmur,  "Your  sister  wants  a  talk  with 
you. "  "  Right !  Thanks ! ' '  said  Alan. 

Accordingly,  outside  they  separated  and  Peter  found 
himself  once  more  alone  with  Phyllis  and  Joyce,  the 


THE  WINGS  OF  YOUTH  55 

centre  of  a  continual  fire  of  chaff,  which  crossed  and  re- 
crossed  him  without  requiring  intervention  on  his  part 
to  keep  it  alive.  On  the  whole  Phyllis  gave  as  good  as 
she  got,  for  Joyce 's  past  did  not  appear  to  be  unimpeach- 
able. "Who  slid  down  the  bannisters?"  demanded 
Phyllis  with  triumphant  iteration,  causing  Joyce,  who 
had  replaced  her  blade  of  grass  by  a  sprig  of  wild  thyme, 
to  devour  inches  of  the  stalk  in  wrath  and  mortifica- 
tion. What  there  was  to  be  ashamed  of  in  the  athletic 
feat  Peter  did  not  comprehend,  until  the  chance  word 
'nightgown'  and  Joyce's  blushes  enlightened  him.  On 
the  other  hand  it  did  not  appear  to  be  disputed  that 
Phyllis  had  taken  Joyce's  silver-backed  hair  brush  and 
concealed  it  with  intent  to  annoy,  which  seemed  a  far 
worse  crime  to  Peter. 

Every  now  and  then  Phyllis  raked  him  with  an  au- 
dacious glance  of  her  black  eyes,  which  were  filled  with 
fun  as  well  as  with  provocation,  appearing  to  ask, ' '  Isn  't 
this  all  ripping  ? "  as  well  as, ' '  Am  I  not  a  pretty  girl  ? " ; 
and  so  they  went  across  the  springy,  green  turf  towards 
the  verge  of  the  precipice  over  which  Alan  and  Cynthia 
apparently  had  walked,  to  judge  from  the  suddenness  of 
their  disappearance.  Silhouetted  against  the  sky  was 
the  figure  of  an  old  man  with  a  long  white  beard,  show- 
ing very  clear  and  gem-like  on  the  azure  background. 
He  was  trimming  slates  and  talking  to  an  enormous  gull 
which  stood  a  yard  or  so  away  from  him,  listening  in 
respectful  immobility. 

' '  Good  marnin ', "  he  said,  as  the  three  approached  and 
the  great  gull  flapped  lazily  to  a  safer  distance. 

"Good  morning  to  you,"  Peter  replied.  "I'm  sorry 
we've  frightened  your  gull." 

' '  That  don 't  matter.  She  '11  come  again,  I  rackon,  for 
'tes  a  hungry  bird.  Your  friends  are  down  under 
in  the  quarry,  looking  for  Charlie  Hamley,  the  bird- 
watcher. ' ' 

"What's  a  bird-watcher?"  demanded  Phyllis. 

"Man  as  a  Lunnon  Society  pays  wages  to  protect  the 
nests  of  chaws  and  bluehawks  agin  strubbers,  Miss!" 

The  old  man  was  extraordinarily  handsome,  perched 


56  THE  JOYFUL  YEAES 

there  high  above  the  sea,  and  his  eyes  were  blue  and 
clear  and  steady. 

"May  I  feed  the  gull  when  it  comes  back?"  pleaded 
Joyce.  "Have  you  any  more  crumbs?" 

The  old  man  ceased  work  for  the  first  time  during  the 
conversation,  and  slowly  turning,  gazed  at  her.  "Yes," 
he  said,  after  a  moment,  "yes,  Missie.  Come  and  sit 
by  me." 

Peter  and  Phyllis  withdrew  a  little  way  and  admired 
the  tremendous  sweep  of  coastline,  wreathed  in  a  sun- 
haze,  stretching  to  distant  Pentire  Head,  and  listened  to 
the  thunder  of  the  waves.  Flights  of  rooks  and  jackdaws 
circled  overhead,  but  they  looked  in  vain  for  the  red  legs 
and  red  beak  of  the  chough.  A  lark  was  singing  behind 
them,  and  the  scent  of  the  wild  thyme  was  blown  across 
the  down  and  the  sun  shone  on  their  backs  with  summer 
heat.  Phyllis,  stretching  herself  luxuriously,  lay  back 
with  her  hands  clasped  behind  her  head  and  closed  her 
eyes;  but  Peter  leaned  forward  and  listened  to  the  old 
man,unwillingto  lose  an  instant  of  his  holiday  in  slumber. 

' '  'Tes  what  they  calls  a  herring-gull, ' '  he  was  saying, 
"and  that  there  stain  on  the  side  of  her  beak  came  to 
the  gulls  a  long  time  agone. — It  isn't  there  by  chance, 
like.  They  do  say,  when  the  saint  as  named  the  church 
yonder  was  martyred,  one  of  the  gulls  flapped  around 
the  soldiers'  heads,  screechin'  and  complainin'  agin  the 
wicked  sin  they  was  doin '.  And  a  soldier  caught  'un  and 
nailed  'un  by  the  beak  upon  the  cross  up  over  the  saint 's 
head.  From  that  day  to  this  they  herring-gulls  have 
had  the  red  mark,  but  I  can't  speak  as  to  the  truth  of 
the  tale,  for  I  'm  a  Methody  mysel '.  That 's  right,  Missie. 
Throw  the  bread  with  your  fingers,  like.  Don't  stir 
more  nor  you  can  help.  That's  it !  'Tes  a  greedy  fowl. " 

Alan  and  Cynthia  reappeared  above  the  brow  of  the 
precipice  by  the  side  of  the  old  man,  and  the  gull  flew 
away.  "Oh!"  cried  Joyce,  disappointed. 

"Sorry,  old  girl,"  said  Alan.  "We've  settled  with 
Hamley  for  three- thirty  this  afternoon.  He  says  you 
need  a  steady  head  to  get  in  sight  of  a  chough 's  nest,  and 
that  puts  Phyllis  out  of  the  party.  Joyce,  I  daren't  trust 


THE  WINGS  OF  YOUTH  57 

you  for  the  climbing.  Be  a  man,  and  111  take  you  out 
fishing  one  day  instead.  What  about  you,  Middleton? 
Will  you  come?" 

' '  I  say,  I  'm  no  good  on  heights ! ' '  confessed  Peter. 

"No  more  am  I,"  added  Cynthia  in  a  hurry. 

Alan  stared  at  her  and  forgot  the  manners  of  the 
Foreign  Office  so  far  as  to  whistle.  "Since  when?"  he 
inquired.  "My  good  Rose,  remember  Switzerland!" 

"Well,  I'm  not  going  this  afternoon,"  said  Cynthia, 
obstinately,  and  she  carried  him  on  ahead,  after  a  hasty 
farewell  to  the  patriarch. 

' '  If  you  see  a  bird  containing  the  soul  of  King  Arthur, 
that 's  a  Cornish  chough ! ' '  warned  Alan  over  his  shoul- 
der; but  to  Cynthia  he  said  rather  coldly,  "I  don't  un- 
derstand you  this  morning,  Sis.  Middleton  was  not  em- 
barrassed, and  the  situation  did  not  require  saving." 

"I  was  sorry  for  him.  I  did  not  want  him  to  feel 
lonely.  Anyhow,  you  need  not  have  given  me  away, 
Alan!" 

"Phyllis  would  have  done  that  with  an  innuendo,  the 
moment  your  back  was  turned.  Really,  you  might  have 
found  a  more  plausible  excuse !  And  he  '11  have  Phyllis 
and  Joyce  with  him  in  any  case,  so  he  can't  be  lonely. 
I  should  have  liked  you  with  me,  Sis.  In  fact  I  was 
relying  on  you.  Are  you  cross  because  I  won 't  help  you 
to  become  a  governess?" 

"I  don't  want  to  become  a  governess!"  burst  out 
Cynthia  furiously.  "You  are  hateful  to  me,  Alan !  Nor 
do  I  want  to  be  a  nurse;  nor  a  shop-girl!  I'm  only 
asking  you  to  use  your  influence  with  Daddy  to  get  me 
a  little  independence,  a  chance  to  go  my  own  way,  and 
occasionally  see  my  own  friends  in  the  house.  It  isn't 
much  to  ask.  And  you  are  a  beast  to  me ! " 

"My  good  girl " 

"  I  'm  not  your  good  girl !  I  want  to  be  my  own  good 
girl !  I  want  to  be  good  by  myself,  for  a  change.  That's 
about  what  I  do  want ! ' ' 

Alan  looked  at  his  watch.  "Home,  I  suppose!  It's 
getting  on  to  lunch-time.  What's  wrong  with  your  pres- 
ent life,  Rose?" 


58  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

"I'm  sick  of  it.  Look  at  the  liberty  a  girl  like  Miss 
Taliesin  has.  She 's  doing  something  useful  in  the  world ; 
and  what  am  I  doing?" 

"Do  you  share  Miss  Taliesin 's  views?  Do  you  want 
a  vote  ?  Do  you  consider  men  unfit  for  such  a  position 
as  she  holds  ? ' ' 

"Don't  you?" 

"I've  got  a  vote,  thank  you,"  said  Alan.  "And,  no, 
I  don't  wish  to  see  women  in  public  life  for  a  good 
many  years  to  come.  I'm  afraid  I  think  even  Miss 
Taliesin 's  work  might  be  better  done  by  men." 

"But  don't  you  admire  herself,  her  personality,  what 
she 's  become  through  being  independent  and  doing  that 
work?  I  thought  you  did!" 

Alan  glanced  at  her,  and  his  face  hardened.  "We're 
not  discussing  Helen  Taliesin,"  he  said,  and  he  sighed 
after  he  had  said  it,  which  Cynthia  was  too  agitated  to 
notice. 

"I  shall  jolly  well  ask  her  when  she  comes  down 
whether  she  thinks  I  ought  to  be  leading  a  life  like  this, ' ' 
she  said.  "I'm  only  a  doll  that  Mother  dresses  up  to 
wait  on  Daddy " 

1 '  Stop ! ' '  commanded  Alan.  ' '  That  isn  't  the  way  to 
talk  of  them,  and  you  know  it,  Sis!  ...  It  appears  to 
me  you  have  as  much  liberty  as  is  good  for  you,  my 
child.  Dances  without  number,  and  that  man,  Shaun 
James,  always  about  the  house " 

"Oh,  he  isn't!"  Cynthia  contradicted  in  her  turn. 
"The  other  day  was  the  first  time  he'd  dined  with  us 
for  eight  months!" 

"Still,  there  he  was.  And  here's  this  young  chap 
Middleton,  whose  feelings  you  are  so  anxious  to  spare 
before  they're  hurt — remember  he's  quite  unmarriage- 
able,  Sis,  whatever  James  may  be!  Very  few  girls  of 
your  age  are  as  well-dressed  as  you  are,  but  you  say 
that  doesn't  appeal  to  you.  It  would  if  you  had  to 
do  without  it!  Miss  Taliesin  misses  it,  although  you 
might  not  think  so.  You're  got  books,  and  you  go  to 
all  the  concerts  you  want  and  to  the  theatre  pretty 
often,  and  there's  the  Bath  Club  coming  on.  I'm  both- 


THE  WINGS  OF  YOUTH  59 

ered  if  I  see  what  it  is  you've  got  to  grumble  about,  ex- 
cept that  they  don't  give  you  an  allowance.  I've  spoken 
about  that  to  Dad,  as  you  know,  and  Mother  is  against 
it.  The  money  is  spent  on  you  all  right,  Sis.  It's  only 
the  name  of  the  thing  after  all!" 

Cynthia  spoke  quietly.  "  I  've  no  idea  of  the  value  of 
money  and  I  want  to  learn ;  I  've  no  idea  of  responsibil- 
ity. I  want  to  grow  up.  But  if  you  won't  help  me,  it's 
no  good  talking.  I'd  like  you  to  know,  though,  Alan, 
that  Mr.  James  does  not  want  to  marry  me." 

' '  Then  he  looks  at  you  in  an  odd  kind  of  a  way  some- 
times!" retorted  Alan. 

"You  must  believe  me!  And  Alan,  you  must  admit 
he 's  a  gentleman,  even  if  you  do  dislike  him  so  much. ' ' 

' '  I  don 't  dislike  him  particularly  and  I  do  admit  he 's 
a  gentleman.  My  dear  old  Rose,  let's  cease  to  quarrel! 
It  never  does  any  good." 

"I  will,  if  you  will,"  cried  Cynthia,  holding  out  her 
hand.  "I  suppose  you  never  would  see  a  girl's  point  of 
view,  if  she  talked  to  you  for  a  twelvemonth!" 


VII 

"I  LIKE  Peter  Middleton,"  said  Joyce  to  Cynthia,  as 
they  were  washing  their  hands  in  the  bathroom  before 
lunch.  "And  as  for  That  One  she  simply  raves  about 
him." 

Cynthia  felt  a  sudden  glow  of  anger.  "What  am  I 
irritated  for?"  she  asked  herself.  "I  must  learn  to 
put  up  with  Phyllis."  "Why  talk  about  her?"  she 
inquired  aloud. 

"I  think  he's  just  plain  in  a  good-looking  way,  as  a 
man  ought  to  be,  but  That  One  worships  his  eyes  and 
his  nose  and  his  tallness.  Do  you  think  his  nose  so 
very  wonderful,  Cyn?" 

"It's  a  nice  nose,"  returned  Cynthia  evasively.  In 
secret  she  thought  it  most  attractive,  but  she  was  not 
disposed  to  compete  with  Phyllis. 

' '  That  One  is  putting  up  her  hair  for  lunch.  She  got 
in  without  Auntie  seeing  her.  I  do  like  you  so  much 
better  than  her,  Cyn.  She's  a  silly!  Do  you  think  I 
shall  look  nice  when  my  time  comes  to  put  my  hair  up  ? " 

"I  like  it  down,"  said  Cynthia,  handing  a  towel. 

' '  Thank  you.  Oh,  but  I  'm  looking  forward  and  count- 
ing the  months,  for  when  it's  up  I'll  be  able  to  go  out 
to  Father  and  Mother  in  India,  and  there  won't  be  any 
German  to  learn. ' ' 

At  this  point  Phyllis  burst  in  and  interrupted;  and 
all  three  proceeded  downstairs.  "What  were  you  shak- 
ing hands  with  Alan  for?"  asked  Phyllis  on  the  stairs, 
with  one  arm  affectionately  round  Cynthia's  waist  and 
the  other  round  Joyce's,  which  compelled  a  crab-like 
progress.  Cynthia  pretended  not  to  hear. 

Peter  was  feeling  the  effects  of  his  self-sacrifice  of  the 
morning  and  was  a  trifle  sad  during  lunch,  although 

60 


THE  WINGS  OF  YOUTH  61 

he  sustained  a  creditable  conversation  with  Lady  Brem- 
ner  about  the  Church  and  the  Vicarage.  ' '  And  did  you 
see  the  Island?"  she  concluded,  Peter  being  overjoyed 
to  hear  Cynthia  answer  for  him,  "We're  going  there 
this  afternoon,  Mother.  There  was  not  time  this 
morning,  without  being  late  for  lunch." 

"Good  child!"  smiled  Lady  Bremner,  on  a  note  of 
surprise. 

"Did  you  have  good  sport,  Sir?"  Peter  asked  Sir 
Everard,  who  was  silently  carving  a  cold  duck.  As  a 
rule  Sir  Everard  liked  this  respectful  form  of  address, 
but  the  question  was  unfortunate. 

"I  did  not  expect  sport  on  such  a  bright  day,"  he 
answered  with  indifference.  "No,  I  got  nothing.  Only 
one  bite." 

Phyllis,  who  was  observing  the  fall  of  the  sensitive 
barometer  of  Peter's  face,  choked  over  a  piece  of  bread, 
and  Cynthia  looked  at  her  angrily. 

After  lunch,  Lady  Bremner  retired  to  her  room,  and 
the  three  girls  with  Alan  and  Peter  set  forth  again. 
Sir  Everard  was  invited,  but  preferred  Blackwood's  and 
the  shade.  The  sun  was  blazing  down  and  the  breeze 
had  departed,  leaving  a  mackerel  sky;  into  the  village 
street  came  the  scent  of  new-mown  hay  as  they  strolled 
along,  and  this  time  they  did  not  turn  sharply  to  the 
left  at  the  bend  of  the  road,  but  took  the  narrow  track 
in  front  of  them  into  the  valley  leading  to  the  sea. 

"Do  you  bathe?"  asked  Peter  of  Alan,  at  the  swing 
gate  which  both  had  advanced  to  open,  with  the  conse- 
quence that  they  found  themselves  alone. 

"Before  breakfast;  if  it's  smooth  enough  we'll  have 
a  boat.  Rose,  will  you  bathe  to-morrow  morning?  Boat, 
if  possible." 

She  regretfully  shook  her  head.  She  would  have 
bathed  with  Alan  and  Peter  Middleton  willingly,  but 
Lady  Bremner  had  said  that  she  hoped  she  would  not, 
and  that  was  enough  for  obedient  Cynthia.  The  other 
two  had  gone  on  in  front,  in  apparent  amity  and  alli- 
ance, which  meant  that  Joyce  was  persuading  Phyllis 
to  let  Cynthia  show  Mr.  Middleton  the  Island  by  her- 


62  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

self.  ' '  You  had  him  all  the  morning, ' '  said  cunning  and 
good-natured  Joyce.  "And  if  she  goes  up  and  Alan 
clears  off  with  the  bird-man  you  and  I  might  paddle." 

Phyllis  was  attracted  by  the  proposal.  "Let's  hire 
costumes  from  the  old  woman  and  bathe!"  she  ex- 
claimed. ' '  Auntie  need  never  know. ' ' 

"Not  with  you  alone,  in  that  undertow.  Not  if  I 
know  it,"  remarked  Joyce,  firmly.  "I  jolly  well  can't 
swim  well  enough  for  that!" 

"Say  'well'  a  bit  oftener!  All  right  then.  We'll 
paddle.  Perhaps  Alan  will  too,  before  he  starts." 

"He's  got  the  guide-book  and  he'll  rush  round  the 
island — you  see !  Besides,  he  might  make  a  fuss.  Alan's 
awfully  particular,  you  know ;  and  it  is  a  bad  beach  for 
paddling,  the  waves  pull  the  shingle  over  your  feet  so. 
But  that's  what  I  like.  It's  more  exciting." 

They  were  going  down  a  narrow,  unhedged  lane,  along 
a  stream  which  ran  sometimes  on  a  level  with  it  and 
sometimes  dropped  much  deeper  into  the  valley.  On 
either  hand  rose  a  steep,  grass-covered  slope  with  here 
and  there  an  outcrop  of  slaty  rock  amongst  heather  and 
wild  thyme.  The  road  curved  to  the  right,  and  now  blue 
sea  came  into  view  before  them  above  white  cottages: 
instinctively  they  quickened  their  pace.  High  on  their 
left  upon  the  cliff  appeared  the  fragments  of  the  old 
Keep  of  Tintagel  Castle,  piled  in  rugged  and  fantastic 
ruin  against  the  sky-line.  Now  they  were  approaching 
the  two  cottages  rapidly  downhill.  When  they  reached 
them,  Cynthia  entered  the  one  with  a  carpet  of  smooth 
stones  before  the  door  to  obtain  the  key  of  the  Island 
from  the  dame  who  has  conversed  with  all  the  celebrities 
of  the  world  and  heard  them  utter  identical  praises  of 
Tintagel. 

A  few  yards  farther,  and  the  party  were  looking  down 
on  a  narrow  cove,  cliff- walled;  its  beach,  which  was 
composed  of  slaty  shingle  worn  smooth  by  the  sea,  being 
attainable  only  by  steps.  Projecting  from  the  water  in 
the  middle  of  the  inlet  was  a  rock,  to  which  were  con- 
nected the  cables  by  means  of  which  boats  were  lowered 
from  or  drawn  up  to  a  shelf  of  rock  on  the  right.  Sev- 


THE  WINGS  OF  YOUTH  63 

eral  newly-painted  dinghies  were  lying  there  now,  with 
another  on  which  men  in  long  boots  and  jerseys  were 
busily  working.  The  left  side  of  the  cove  was  formed 
by  the  towering  precipice  of  the  so-called  "Island," 
which  was  in  reality  a  peninsula,  joined  to  the  mainland 
by  a  crumbling  isthmus  of  the  narrowness  of  the  track 
which  crossed  it  and  falling  sheer  to  the  sea  from  either 
brink.  A  path  led  up  to  this  narrow  place  and  was 
continued  on  the  Island  side  by  steps  cut  in  the  rock 
up  the  face  of  the  precipice  as  far  as  a  door  in  a  battle- 
mented  wall  that  had  once  formed  part  of  the  fortifica- 
tions and  now  protected  the  headland  from  the  intrusions 
of  relic-hunters  with  large  sacks. 

Peter  had  been  hurried  up  there  so  quickly  that  he 
had  not  had  time  to  be  dizzy  or  to  realise  more  than 
the  wildness  of  the  scene  and  its  quality  of  exceptional- 
ness  which  is  the  striking  characteristic  of  Tintagel.  But 
when  Alan  had  entered,  Cynthia  would  not  follow. 
"We'll  go  in  later,"  she  announced,  "without  a  guide- 
book, Alan."  And  when  the  door  was  closed  and  they 
were  turning  to  descend  again  to  the  cove,  Peter  glanced 
above  him  up  the  towering  cliff  and  below  him  down  the 
stairway  hewn  from  rock,  that  had  only  the  frailest 
balustrade  to  shut  it  off  from  vacancy,  to  the  narrow 
path  across  the  isthmus ;  and  he  heard  the  pounding  of 
waves  upon  the  boulders  at  the  foot  of  the  precipice, 
and  was  attacked  by  vertigo.  He  managed  to  fight  it 
down  by  the  thought  of  Cynthia  behind  him.  Looking  in 
front  of  him,  he  saw  the  ruins  of  the  Keep  perched  high 
across  the  gulf  on  the  landward  side ;  to  the  right  were 
weird,  slaty-dark  cliffs  with  veins  of  grey  quartz  running 
through  them :  they  loomed  gigantic,  three  hundred  feet 
above  the  breakers  that  assailed  them  with  thundering 
blow  after  thundering  blow,  at  whose  tremendous  impact 
the  whole  earth  seemed  to  quiver.  Somehow  he  got 
down  to  the  isthmus.  There,  clinging  to  the  wooden 
handrail  and  staring  westward  between  Island  cliff  and 
mainland  cliff  across  a  shining,  glittering  sea  to  dim 
Pentire,  he  was  again  attacked  by  the  sickening  dizzi- 
ness. This  time  Cynthia  saw,  and  touched  his  arm,  heal- 


64  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

ing  him.  He  turned  to  thank  her.  She  smiled,  and 
glanced  away.  In  another  moment  he  had  mastered 
himself  and  was  able  to  look  down  upon  the  cove. 

The  worst  of  the  descent  was  over,  and  as  they 
walked  to  the  beach  Peter  had  time  to  take  a  leisurely 
survey  of  the  outer  and  inner  battlemented  walls  and 
the  few  small  ruins  which  were  all  that  remained  of  the 
defences  of  Tintagel  Castle  upon  the  Island.  They  slope 
on  green  grass  to  the  precipice  edge;  and  underneath 
them,  attainable  at  low  water  from  the  beach,  passes 
a  tunnel  through  the  cliff,  and  the  name  of  it  is  Merlin 's 
Cave.  Joyce  ran  ahead  into  it  and  the  others  followed, 
struck  with  wonder  at  the  mystery  of  the  place  and 
awed  by  the  sullen  reverberating  boom  of  water  beyond 
in  darkness.  Cold  drippings  from  the  roof  fell  on  their 
heads,  the  shingle  descended  in  a  sharp  incline  beneath 
their  feet,  then  a  corner  was  turned  and  light  streamed 
across  the  cave,  and  another  moment  brought  them  to  a 
high,  arched  entrance  and  sunshine  and  the  tumbling 
waves. 

"Isn't  it  glorious?"  cried  Peter,  his  hair  ruffled  by 
the  breeze,  his  cap  on  the  back  of  his  head,  a  happy 
boy. 

"Who  stepped  into  that  pool,  besides  me?"  inquired 
Joyce. 

"I  did,"  said  Cynthia.  "And  it  is  glorious.  It's  per- 
fectly lovely." 

"Top-hole!"  agreed  Phyllis.  "I  told  you  stockings 
were  no  good,  Rosie,  didn't  I  now?" 

"Look  at  those  whopping  big  gulls.  I  wonder  which 
of  them  belongs  to  the  old  man, ' '  said  Joyce,  chewing  a 
lock  of  hair  in  default  of  a  blade  of  grass. 

"We'd  better  go  back  and  paddle,  as  we  are  wet," 
Cynthia  recklessly  suggested,  and  they  entered  the  black- 
ness again  and  passed  into  a  place  of  dim  shadow  up  the 
shingle  slope  to  brightness  and  the  beach  of  the  cove. 

"People  bathe  from  Merlin's  Cave,"  remarked  Joyce, 
as  she  flung  herself  down  and  snatched  at  her  shoes 
with  business-like  celerity.  "And  we've  bathed  from 
behind  that  rock  there." 


THE  WINGS  OF  YOUTH  65 

"Auntie  wasn't  a  bit  pleased,"  chimed  in  Phyllis, 
"and  it's  frightfully  difficult  to  dry  oneself,  crouching 
down!" 

"Mummy's  quite  right,"  Cynthia  declared  loyally. 
"The  undertow  is  too  much  for  Phyllis,  as  she  can't 
swim."  She  had  taken  off  her  shoes  and  was  drawing 
a  stocking  from  her  pretty  toes.  She  tucked  the  stock- 
ing neatly  into  a  shoe.  Now  both  her  feet  we're  bare 
and  she  rose  with  a  lithe  movement  and  stepped  cau- 
tiously to  the  edge  of  the  water.  Peter  started  as  he 
found  Phyllis 's  eyes  fixed  curiously  upon  him ;  conscious 
that  he  had  been  caught  in  the  act  of  staring.  It  was  im- 
possible to  deny  it  as  he  was  stooping  forward  with  one 
boot  half  unlaced  and  his  fingers  idle. 

"It  would  have  been  all  right,  Cyn,  if  you  hadn't 
swum  so  much,"  said  Joyce  from  the  advance  place 
which  shortness  of  skirts  enabled  her  to  take. 

"Well,  I  don't  often  get  a  chance  for  a  swim," 
Cynthia  defended  herself. 

Phyllis  accepted  Peter's  hand  to  help  her  to  rise,  and 
spoke  to  him  in  an  odd  voice,  still  gazing  at  him  with 
round,  surprised  eyes,  which  looked  as  though  they 
had  suddenly  understood  something.  "She  swam  out 
to  that  rock  in  the  middle  and  dived  from  it,  and  of 
course  Auntie  wouldn't  stand  that,  for  there  were  men 
looking  on." 

"I  never  knew  that!"  cried  Cynthia,  vexed. 

"1  saw  them!"  said  Phyllis. 

And  now  Alan  came  hurrying  down  to  the  beach. 
"Glad  you've  Middleton  to  look  after  you,"  he  com- 
mented. "That  seems  likely  to  be  a  damp  amusement. — 
The  Chapel's  all  right,  and  so  are  the  graves  and  the 
kitchen  chimney,  but  much  of  the  rest  is  faked.  You 
might  date  the  lot  from  the  twelfth  century,  and  as  for 
King  Arthur  ..."  He  threw  up  his  guide-book  and 
caught  it  again. 

"Oh,  don't  spoil  King  Arthur!"  cried  Joyce  im- 
patiently. 

' '  Kid !    Well,  I  'm  off  to  meet  Hamley. ' ' 

"I'm  not  going  to  climb  up  to  that  island  again,* 


66  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

said  Phyllis  when  Alan  had  disappeared,  and  she  nodded 
at  Joyce  as  she  spoke.  "Won't  you  show  it  to  Peter, 
Eosie  dear?" 

"If  you  two  will  lie  quietly  on  the  beach  and  behave 
yourselves  and  go  straight  back  to  tea  when  the  time 
comes!"  replied  Cynthia,  too  happy  with  her  playmates, 
sun  and  air  and  water,  to  resent  the  diminutive.  Peter 
was  overjoyed.  He  had  misjudged  Phyllis,  not  having 
dared  to  hope  for  this,  especially  after  the  last  few 
minutes ! 

They  lay  in  a  row  on  the  warm  shingle,  waiting  for 
their  feet  to  dry  in  the  sun.  Those  of  Cynthia  and 
Phyllis  were  equally  white  and  finely  shaped.  Joyce's 
bare  limbs  were  more  sunburnt,  for  at  her  school  the 
simple  life  was  in  force  and  young  girls  played  summer 
games  without  stockings.  "I'm  jolly  glad  Helen  Timbs 
got  measles!"  she  sighed.  "Else  I  couldn't  have  been 
here."  She  rolled  over  and  picked  up  a  piece  of  paper 
that  was  held  down  by  a  stone. 

"That's  not  yours,"  said  Phyllis,  warningly. 

"I  know  that,  darling!    Oh,  it's  a  tract!" 

"Those  men  who  passed  us  as  we  came  down  must 
have  left  it,"  said  Cynthia,  getting  ready  to  depart. 

Phyllis  gave  a  sudden  scream.  "Look!"  she  cried, 
pointing  to  a  black  head  moving  on  the  water  at  the 
entrance  of  the  cove.  It  vanished. 

"A  seal,"  said  Peter.  "It  was  coming  for  the  tract 
and  you've  frightened  it  away." 

Cynthia  was  now  shod  and  she  rose  to  her  feet,  a  tall, 
white  figure  with  a  crown  of  burnished  hair,  which  the 
sun  was  turning  to  gold. 

"Even  a  clean  beach  like  this  makes  one's  skirt  hor- 
rid," she  sighed.  "I  do  like  to  be  tidy.  Come  along, 
Mr.  Middleton." 

"Call  him  Peter!"  implored  Phyllis,  teasingly. 

Cynthia  took  no  notice  of  her,  continuing,  "We  shall 
have  to  be  quick  to  get  back  by  tea-time." 

So  Peter  hastened  to  get  ready,  and  presently  they 
were  climbing  the  steep  path  together,  alone  for  the  third 
time  in  their  acquaintance.  Peter  had  wondered  what 


THE  WINGS  OF  YOUTH  67 

he  would  say,  had  invented  brilliant,  glowing  conversa- 
tions which  he  never  dared  hope  would  take  place,  as  he 
expected  to  be  tongue-tied.  And  lo,  everything  was 
different  from  what  he  had  foreseen,  and  he  was  talking 
freely  with  his  divinity,  as  though  they  had  known  each 
other  for  years!  As  indeed  they  had,  according  to 
Cynthia's  point  of  view,  which  included  the  childhood's 
meeting. 

He  uttered  his  thought  aloud,  while  the  girl  was  fitting 
the  great  key,  which  Alan  had  left  behind  with  them, 
into  the  keyhole  of  the  door  set  in  the  battlemented  wall. 
Unconsciously  he  leaned  away  from  the  brink  as  he 
spoke,  and  stared  at  her  with  white  face,  for  he  was 
still  suffering  agonies  from  the  dizzy  ascent.  "It's  the 
first  time  we've  been  alone  since  I've  been  down,"  he 
said,  "and  we're  good  friends  already!"  He  felt  as 
though  he  ought  to  be  disappointed,  the  quiet  content 
which  he  experienced  in  her  presence  now  that  they 
were  by  themselves  being  far  from  his  idea  of  a  lover's 
passion.  The  glow  of  excitement  was  lacking,  and  not 
because  of  the  mental  strain  of  overcoming  his  vertigo. 
Kather  it  was  replaced  by  this  happy  ease,  for  which 
Shaun  would  have  told  him  to  thank  God,  kneeling. 

"I'm  glad,"  replied  Cynthia,  frankly.  "I  want 
friends."  She,  like  him,  felt  singularly  free  from  care 
and  as  light-hearted  as  though  something  long  looked 
forward  to,  even  from  childhood,  had  come  at  last  bring- 
ing peace  not  readily  to  be  understood ;  but  in  her  case 
the  emotion  was  calmer  still.  And  it  was  unconscious ; 
all  she  admitted  to  herself  being,  "I  wish  everybody 
were  as  nice  and  as  easy  to  get  on  with  as  Mr.  Middle- 
ton."  Why  he  was  so  congenial  she  was  too  innocent, 
too  unawakened,  to  attempt  to  analyse. 

And  now  they  were  in  the  first  enclosure,  surrounded 
by  ruined  walls  conspicuous  for  the  height  of  their  bat- 
tlements and  the  skill  with  which  the  warrior-architect 
had  utilised  every  inch  of  level  ground  and  built  his 
fortifications  into  the  cliff.  A  circular  Norman  archway 
led  out  from  the  opposite  side;  by  it  was  the  remnant 
of  the  old  kitchen,  noticed  by  Alan. 


68  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

"They're  jolly  fine,  even  if  they  weren't  built  in  King 
Arthur's  time!"  said  Peter.  "And  I  daresay  he  had  a 
castle  here  as  well.  Tell  me  why  you  need  a  friend, 
please.  I'd  like  to  be  one  to  you." 

Cynthia  felt  that  she  was  going  too  fast  with  Mr. 
Middleton,  and  to  salve  her  conscience  deferred  her  ex- 
planation for  several  minutes.  "I'll  tell  you  about 
Tintagel  first, ' '  she  said.  ' '  Didn  't  you  know  Sir  Lancelot 
fought  giants  on  the  causeway  outside?  By  the  way,  I 
think  it  was  very  brave  of  you  to  come  up  here  as  you 
don't  like  heights.  Mother  has  never  been  up  yet.  This 
part  we  are  in  was  a  prison  in  mediaeval  times.  The  old 
legends  are  much  more  exciting.  When  we  were  sitting 
on  the  beach  couldn  't  you  see  King  Arthur  being  washed 
up,  a  little  baby,  at  the  feet  of  the  enchanters?  That 
was  the  place  where  it  happened,  and  the  cave  we  went 
through  is  called  Merlin's  Cave.  King  Mark  of  Cornwall 
lived  at  Tintagel,  and  Tristram  saw  Iseult  here.  Shall 
we  go  on  ?  It 's  only  a  little  bit  of  a  scramble  to  get  to 
the  top  of  the  Island,  where  there's  St.  Juliet's  Chapel 
with  the  old  altar-stone  remaining.  The  legend  says 
Merlin  was  to  be  buried  in  it,  but  as  they  carried  his 
body  to  the  threshold  it  was  snatched  out  of  their 
hands,  because  he  could  not  enter  holy  ground.  So  they 
had  to  bury  him  outside  after  all." 

During  the  walk  thither  Peter  was  silent,  though  with- 
out confusion:  he  could  not  be  embarrassed  in  the 
presence  of  this  girl.  She  was  too  splendid,  too  real. 
The  simplest  things  she  said  had  a  kind  of  magic  in 
them,  or  was  it  just  the  sweetness  of  her  girlhood,  and 
her  freedom  from  self-consciousness,  and  the  friendly 
charm  of  her  eyes?  Love  or  no  love,  he  and  she  were 
born  to  be  comrades. 

They  examined  the  chapel;  and  walking  on  the  high- 
est ridge  of  the  Island  came  to  the  ancient  graveyard, 
whose  stones  are  barely  visible  above  the  soil.  On  the 
left  was  the  Pinnacle  Rock,  and,  close  by,  King  Arthur's 
Seat,  high  above  the  waves,  and  the  hollows  known  as 
his  Cups  and  Saucers  and  his  Footprint ;  but  all  of  these 
were  near  the  edge  of  a  sheer  precipice  and  Cynthia 


THE  WINGS  OF  YOUTH  69 

forgot  them  for  her  companion's  sake.  She  showed  him 
the  spring  that  gave  fresh  water  to  the  garrison — 
discoverable  by  the  rich  emerald  green  of  the  grass 
around  it;  and  also  the  curious,  low  cave,  roofed  by  a 
mighty  slab  of  rock  which  tradition  says  was  placed 
there  by  Merlin,  who  closed  the  opening  by  a  spell  so 
that  his  prisoner  could  gaze  everlastingly  into  the  free 
air.  The  confined  spirit  might  be  still  suffering  his 
awful  punishment,  so  they  approached  the  narrow  en- 
trance with  a  thrill,  speedily  calmed  by  the  sight  of  a 
Daily  Mail  which  desecrated  the  interior.  Peter  threw 
this  over  the  cliff. 

Then  they  seated  themselves  as  near  to  the  brink  as 
Peter  could  get  in  comfort,  surrounded  by  the  tiny 
star-like  flowers  of  the  stonecrop  growing  in  and  out 
of  the  crevices  of  the  rock;  and  looked  for  choughs 
among  the  ravens  that  chattered  angrily  about  their 
heads;  and  listened  to  the  ceaseless  complaining  of  the 
breakers  as  it  rose  to  them  from  far  below.  The  sea 
was  a  slaty  blue,  the  breeze  was  dropping,  and  long 
lines  of  spindrift  made  white  streaks  upon  the  plain  of 
water.  On  their  left  the  cliffs  stretched  unbroken  to 
the  headland  of  Pentire  off  which  was  the  rocky  islet 
called  The  Mouls.  The  light  shone  white  on  houses  half- 
way thither,  marking  the  position  of  Port  Isaac,  whose 
harbour  was  concealed  from  view.  And  on  their  right 
hand  were  higher,  grimmer  precipices,  from  Willapark 
and  Trevalga  Cliffs  to  Meachard  Rock  and  Firebeacon 
Point  by  Beeny,  crowding  upon  each  other  to  the  misty 
outline  of  far-off  Hartland.  The  view  was  of  compel- 
ling grandeur. 

"There's  nowhere  else  like  this  in  Cornwall,"  mur- 
mured Cynthia,  under  the  spell. 

And  Peter  also  spoke  beneath  his  breath.  "Why  do 
you  need  a  friend?"  he  asked,  looking  from  the  ocean 
to  the  girl's  sea-grey  eyes,  which  were  deep  and  thought- 
ful. "She  is  my  star,"  he  heard  a  voice  whisper  in 
his  heart,  and  it  seemed  to  him  he  said  the  words 
aloud,  but  she  neither  moved  nor  did  her  countenance 
change. 


70  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

"Because  I'm  lonely,  I  suppose.  I  want  to  do  things. 
You  don't  know  what  it  is  to  be  a  girl." 

"I'm  not  free  either,"  answered  Peter,  slowly.  "I 
can  sympathise." 

She  turned  her  bright  gaze  to  his;  full  of  impulsive 
gratitude.  A  tender  smile  rose  to  her  lips.  Their 
delicious  curves  quivered  and  they  opened.  "I  thought 
you  would!"  she  cried.  "Shaun  has  always  been  free, 
and  though  he  understands  he  hasn't  real  sympathy. 
He  blames  me  in  his  heart  for  not  standing  up  to 
Mother,  but  how  can  I?  You  see  how  difficult  it  is. 
Mummy  is  right  in  nearly  everything,  and  if  I  could 
make  a  choice  I  'd  often  do  exactly  what  she  chooses  for 
me,  which  makes  it  all  the  harder  to  fight  for  the  other 
things.  She  knows  I  do  willingly  what  she  asks,  and  she 
doesn't  realise  how  I  hate  to  be  taken  for  granted.  It 
isn't  that  she  doesn't  trust  me!  It's  only  that  she's  ac- 
customed to  arrange  for  me  as  well  as  herself.  I've 
fought  to  be  allowed  to  keep  Shaun,  and  she 's  been  sweet 
in  giving  way  to  me  there.  But  it's  the  little  things! 
I  don't  want  to  be  independent  half  so  much  as  to  feel 
independent."  She  leant  back  again. 

"It's  partly  like  that  with  me,"  said  Peter.  "The 
system  is  wrong." 

1 '  That 's  it !    Not  the  people  at  all. ' ' 

"I  hate  to  sound  discouraging,  but  systems  are 
horribly  difficult  to  alter,  far  worse  than  individuals. 
That's  why  I'm  a  Conservative  and  not  a  Socialist,  be- 
cause if  the  State  did  everything  it  would  be  all  Sys- 
tem." 

' '  I  never  thought  of  that ! ' '  said  Cynthia.  ' '  Of  course 
it  would." 

"I'll  ask  you  to  forgive  me,  if  I'm  impertinent.  I'm 
trying  to  say  what  I  think.  It  seems  to  me  that  in  a 
way  it's  rough  on  a  girl  to  be  good-looking.  A  girl  who's 
pretty  is  never  free,  if  she 's  carefully  brought  up ;  and 
supposing  she  isn't  she  gets  a  kind  of  liberty  certainly, 
but  every  man  she  meets  is  trying  to  put  an  end  to  it. ' ' 

' '  How  did  you  learn  all  these  things  ? ' '  asked  Cynthia, 
curiously. 


THE  WINGS  OF  YOUTH  71 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Peter,  flushing. 

"And  that  would  mean  that  if  I  entered  a  profession 
or  was  able  to  do  what  I  liked  I  should  be  bothered  by 
men  making  love  to  me?" 

"You  wouldn't  have  any  peace,"  Peter  stated  with 
conviction. 

' '  I  don 't  want  to  sound  a  conceited  cat, ' '  said  Cynthia, 
laughing,  "but  I'm  already  worried  that  way  at  pres- 
ent!" 

"  I  'm  sure  you  are,  but  don 't  you  see  ?  The  freer  you 
were,  the  more  opportunity  there 'd  be  for  men  to 
approach  you,  and  you'd  have  to  learn  to  guard  against 
them  and  keep  them  off,  and  that  must  be  a  beastly  sort 
of  knowledge  for  a  girl. ' ' 

"You  think  I  should  occupy  all  the  spare  time  I'd 
gained,  just  in  keeping  the  men  I  didn't  like  at  a 
distance?  It's  a  flattering  suggestion,  Mr.  Middleton." 

' '  I  mean  it, ' '  said  Peter,  doggedly.  "  It 's  not  all  fun 
for  a  girl  who's  working  side  by  side  with  men,  and 
claiming  equality  with  them,  to  be  tremendously  good 
to  look  at." 

' '  Isn  't  the  disadvantage  the  same  in  society  ? ' ' 

"Not  quite.  When  a  girl  is  sheltered  men  have  to 
make  love  in  a  certain  way.  That  cuts  out  the  wrong 
'uns." 

' '  I  wonder ! ' '  said  Cynthia.  ' '  Queer  people  have  pro- 
posed to  me.  Still  I  do  understand,  and  it's  very,  very 
nice  of  you  to  be  so  frank.  Also  I  agree  with  most  that 
you've  said.  Tell  me  what  sort  of  a  man  would  you 
think  sets  a  girl  who's  been  a  prisoner  free  when  he 
marries  her?" 

"I  suppose  every  man  would  think  he  does." 

Something  in  his  voice  must  have  startled  her,  for 
she  remained  a  long  time  silent.  Peter  could  see  her 
profile  and  some  strands  of  waving  hair.  He  thought  it 
a  face  intended  to  be  strong  as  well  as  beautiful.  There 
was  indecision  in  the  parted  lips,  but  not  weakness.  Then 
her  charm  overcame  him  again,  and  he  could  only  adore. 

She  stirred  and  he  looked  away.  "Would  Mr. 
James?"  she  asked. 


72  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

Peter  hesitated.  "Really,  I  hardly  know  him.  I've 
only  met  him  once." 

"You've  read  his  books,  and  thought  about  him  since 
you  saw  him.  Please,  Mr.  Middleton!" 

"I  believe  he'd  make  a  splendid  husband,"  said  Peter; 
then,  choosing  the  greater  risk  of  honesty  with  a  third 
member  of  the  Bremner  family,  "but  his  wife  would 
have  to  put  him  first  in  everything.  She  might  like  to," 
doubtfully. 

Cynthia  sat  up  with  impulsive,  girlish  grace.  She 
held  out  her  hand  in  greeting.  ' '  It  was  horrid  of  me  to 
ask  you,"  she  said,  "and  I  apologise.  You  must  have 
hated  having  to  criticise  him.  Let 's  be  friends !  Proper 
friends,  I  mean;  intimate  friends,  if  I  can  help  you! 
You  are  kind  to  answer  my  questions  so  straight-for- 
wardly ! ' ' 

Peter  seized  her  warm  hand.  She  returned  his  grip 
with  a  steady,  strong  pressure.  His  heart  had  sunk  at 
the  word  '  friend, '  but  an  extraordinary  feeling  of  light- 
hearted  joy  came  at  her  touch.  "I'll  be  anything  you 
like!"  he  answered,  fervently. 

She  let  go  his  hand  and  sprang  to  her  feet.  "It's 
time  to  be  moving,"  she  said,  smiling  a  little.  "All 
good  moments  come  to  an  end."  She  was  amused  at 
the  sense  of  independence  and  ease  and  space  which 
she  felt  always  in  the  presence  of  this  new  acquaintance. 
"Was  'freedom'  equivalent  to  being  with  Peter  Middle- 
ton?"  she  idly  asked  herself,  and  a  horrified  exclama- 
tion from  him  cut  short  a  train  of  thought  which  might 
have  caused  her  to  draw  back. 

"Dp  you  know  it's  five  o'clock?"  he  cried. 

"Five  o'clock!"  repeated  Cynthia.  The  position  was 
serious.  It  was  impossible  to  get  back  to  the  house 
in  time  for  tea.  She  hastily  decided  to  take  tea  at  one 
of  the  cottages  above  the  cove,  and  keep  watch  for  a 
possible  search-party.  That  was  better  than  hurrying. 
!  ome  like  culprits;  but,  oh,  to  belong  to  a  family  where 
<:lvls  were  permitted  to  break  rules! 

''Have  tea  with  me  at  the  Cove."     The  suggestion 
:;me  as  an  echo  to  her  thoughts,  and  the  sunlight  was 


THE  WINGS  OF  YOUTH  73 

on  his  face,  transfiguring  it,  and  his  voice  was  trembling 
with  eagerness. 

"Thank  you  very  much,"  she  said. 

That  night  Peter  retained  a  clear  recollection  of  the 
fantastic  contours  of  the  cliffs  and  rocks  and  ruins  on 
the  landward  side,  seen  from  the  summit  of  the  Island, 
of  their  wild  beauty,  of  the  shelving  veins  of  quartz 
across  the  precipices,  and  the  circling  seabirds,  and 
the  steep  paths  running  to  and  fro  like  stretched-out 
ribbon;  and  he  remembered  the  descent  into  the  gulf, 
down  endless  stone  steps,  with  a  white  skirt  fluttering  in 
front;  but  he  could  not  be  clear  as  to  all  they  had 
talked  about,  because  he  had  had  to  restrain  his  lips  from 
uttering  words  of  passion  which  gathered  unbidden  in 
his  heart  and  surged  upward  like  a  flood.  Mostly  it 
was  of  books  that  they  had  spoken,  and  she  had  laughed 
her  merry,  childlike  laughter,  which  was  musical  as  the 
mirth  of  a  rippling  brook.  So  much  he  knew.  And  he 
remembered  the  tiny,  oak-raftered  parlour  in  which  they 
had  eaten  and  drunk  together  as  naturally  as  though 
they  were  always  to  enjoy  the  same  sweet  intercourse. 
The  walk  up  the  combe  was  vivid  in  his  mind.  He  could 
hear  the  creak  of  the  swinging  gate  before  they  came  to 
the  village,  and  the  sound  of  Sir  Everard  's  voice  in  front 
speaking  to  Alan  and  his  words  of  greeting  as  they  came 
into  sight.  "Hullo,  Polly,  here  you  are,  safe  and  sound. 
Your  Mother  has  been  anxious,"  and  Cynthia's  low- 
toned  reply,  "I'm  sorry,  Daddy."  Dear  Cynthia,  his 
friend.  Dinner  had  passed  gaily,  and  she  had  played  and 
sung.  Her  lovely  arms  had  gleamed  white  in  the  soft 
candle-light  on  the  piano.  Her  hair  had  shone  with  a 
rich  glow.  Her  frock  had  been  simple  and  wonderful.  And 
although  she  knew — she  had  whispered  it  to  him — that 
her  mother  was  coming  to  her  room  to  scold  her,  with 
what  courage  she  had  smiled  when  she  said  good-night. 
The  stars  were  dancing  again  in  her  eyes.  She  was  a  Star 
herself,  his  friend  ...  his  love  ...  his  darling  Cynthia. 
Sweet  Cynthia!  Darling,  darling,  darling  .  .  .! 

And  this  was  the  end  of  Peter 's  second  day  of  freedom. 


VIII 

LADY  BREMNER  had  not  been  unkind.  She  was  dis- 
armed by  Peter's  skilful  apologies  which  drew  the  blame 
on  himself,  and  by  the  sudden  propriety  of  Phyllis, 
whose  dinner-gown  was  described  by  Joyce — with  par- 
donable exaggeration — as  'nun-like.'  Or  was  it  the 
holy  aspect  of  the  wearer  that  produced  the  effect? 
And  Phyllis  had  listened  meekly  to  her  lecture,  for  she 
was  full  of  the  secret  she  had  discovered  and  of  her 
own  self-sacrifice.  What  a  romance !  Just  fancy  Peter 
falling  in  love  with  her  own  sweet  Rosie !  For  he  was 
in  love,  of  that  she  felt  certain,  and  was  only  afraid 
lest  young  Joyce  had  noticed  it  as  well.  She  meant  to 
be  a  friend  to  Peter — he  had  such  nice  broad  shoulders. 
It  would  be  a  Platonic  affection,  on  the  loftiest  plane  of 
sentiment,  and  already  she  felt  a  better  and  a  wiser  girl. 
Alas  for  good  resolutions,  which  so  often  die  at  the 
birth  of  their  splendid  children,  deeds!  Phyllis 's  were 
short-lived.  The  very  next  day,  after  puzzling  Peter  by 
her  singular  behaviour  all  the  morning,  as  soon  as  she 
was  left  alone  with  him  in  the  afternoon  she  joined  the 
pianola  attachment  to  the  piano,  hastily  assured  herself 
that  Lady  Bremner  was  lying  down,  tore  into  her  bed- 
room, which  was  on  the  same  floor  as  the  drawing-room 
across  the  corridor,  to  change  into  an  evening  frock, 
and  was  back  in  a  flash  to  dance  to  him.  What  is  more, 
she  compelled  him  to  abandon  his  attitude  of  resignation 
and  admire  her  deviltry  and  somewhat  acrobatic  skill. 
Satisfied  by  his  simple  words  of  praise,  she  was  good  for 
two  whole  days  after.  Then  coming  down  early  to 
dinner  and  finding  him  by  himself  in  the  room,  she  got 
him  to  fasten  a  bracelet  round  her  slim  wrist  and  practi- 
cally dared  him  to  kiss  her.  Brilliantly  pretty  girl 

74 


THE  WINGS  OF  YOUTH  75 

though  she  was,  Peter  refrained,  and,  to  her  credit  be 
it  said,  Phyllis  bore  him  not  the  slightest  malice.  On 
the  contrary,  she  elevated  him  to  a  loftier  throne  in  her 
fancy,  comparing  him  with  King  Arthur  to  that  mon- 
arch 's  discredit,  and  herself  with  Vivien !  After  this  she 
played  around  him  with  perpetual  demands  of  friendship 
about  as  difficult  to  satisfy  as  those  of  a  Persian  kitten 
would  be. 

Her  use  of  his  Christian  name  was  persistent  enough 
to  secure  before  long  official  authorisation  from  Lady 
Bremner.  "It  is  difficult  for  you  young  people  to  keep 
up  formalities  when  you  are  constantly  together.  I'm 
sure  Rosemary  would  not  mind  your  addressing  her  by 
her  first  name,  Peter.  My  husband  and  your  father  were 
such  close  friends  that  I  cannot  think  of  you  as  a 
stranger."  Peter  had  the  grace  to  wonder  what  his 
hostess  would  think  of  him  if  she  knew  his  worship  of 
her  daughter  and  how  he  trembled  with  happiness  at 
the  idea  of  being  on  familiar  terms  with  her.  Lady 
Bremner  was  invariably  nice  to  him ;  indeed  this  sprang 
from  a  genuine  liking.  She  was  more  than  ever  deter- 
mined that  he  should  replace  Shaun  James  and  deliber- 
ately threw  him  and  Cynthia  together,  which  was  the 
easier  because  Phyllis  and  Joyce  now  went  together  to 
Trebarwith  Strand  before  lunch  to  bathe.  Peter  had 
already  swum  at  daybreak  with  Alan,  when  the  dew  was 
sparkling  on  the  grass  in  the  pearly  morning  sunshine 
and  the  fresh  sea  breeze  was  rising,  and  Cynthia  pre- 
ferred a  ramble  with  him  to  bathing  with  the  others 
under  the  chaperonage  of  her  mother,  who  would  prob- 
ably insist  on  a  tent  being  taken  were  she  to  be  of  the 
party.  Cynthia  felt  she  could  not  bear  the  idea  of  a 
stuffy  tent  shared  with  restless  Phyllis  and  chaffing 
Joyce.  She  longed  to  bathe  from  a  boat  far  out  at  sea, 
as  she  had  been  allowed  to  do  before  she  put  her  hair  up. 

Sir  Everard  and  Alan  fished  most  of  the  time,  and  on 
the  morning  that  Lady  Bremner  came  to  her  decision 
about  Christian  names  Peter  was  asked  to  accompany 
them.  His  host,  shocked  to  learn  at  dinner  the  night 
before  that  Peter  had  never  caught  a  trout,  had  resolved 


76  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

to  make  good  this  omission  in  his  education.  He  proved 
a  stern  taskmaster,  and  his  pupil — whose  thoughts  were 
at  Trebarwith  whither  Cynthia  had  escorted  her  mother 
— did  not  do  him  much  credit.  True,  Peter  landed  the 
only  catch  of  the  day,  quite  two  inches  long,  but  as  he 
returned  it  to  the  stream  with  unnecessary  secrecy  Sir 
Everard  was  never  aware  of  this  triumph. 

The  same  afternoon  Miss  Taliesin  arrived,  and  the 
addition  of  so  strong  a  personality  as  hers  proved  to  be 
on  closer  acquaintance  could  not  fail  to  affect  them  all ; 
Alan,  with  whom  she  spent  the  greatest  portion  of  time, 
being  the  least  altered.  He  remained  smooth  and  un- 
approachable, and  came  back  from  long  walks  with  the 
woman  he  was  supposed  to  love,  only  a  shade  whiter 
than  he  set  out.  Cynthia  was  at  a  loss  to  understand 
either  of  them,  or  the  attitude  of  her  parents.  Her 
mother  went  out  of  her  way  to  be  nice  to  Miss  Taliesin 
and  treated  her  with  a  respect  and  affection  which  almost 
suggested  she  was  to  become  one  of  the  family.  But 
Daddy  was  equally  affectionate.  Surely  he  would  not 
approve  of  Alan  making  such  a  match !  The  wife  of  a 
Foreign  Office  clerk  in  Holloway  Gaol,  or  supporting 
Miss  Kenney  on  the  platform  at  a  public  meeting,  would 
place  her  husband  in  a  difficult  position.  Cynthia  her- 
self believed  her  brother  rather  a  heartless  person,  and 
doubted  whether  he  cared  sufficiently  for  Miss  Taliesin 
to  marry  her.  And  could  a  Suffragette  love?  Joyce 
out  of  her  vast  experience  would  have  hotly  contended 
the  thing  was  impossible;  but  Cynthia  was  woman 
enough  to  know  that  Miss  Taliesin  was  extremely  fond 
of  her  brother.  Indeed  she  said  so  herself,  though  in  a 
way  to  make  it  clear  she  did  not  mean  to  be  questioned. 
Altogether  the  condition  of  affairs  was  mysterious. 

Peter  observed  that  Cynthia  was  getting  together  a 
good  deal  of  information  regarding  the  work,  other  than 
political,  which  women  do  nowadays;  but  he  did  not 
connect  this  with  their  talk  on  the  Island,  and  Cynthia 
did  not  return  to  the  subject  with  him.  It  was  settled 
he  was  to  call  her  Cynthia,  not  Rosemary,  which  Lady 
Bremner  welcomed  as  a  blow  to  the  supremacy  of  Shaun 


THE  WINGS  OF  YOUTH  77 

James  who  had  previously  been  the  only  user  of  the 
name.  Cynthia,  however,  had  no  thought  of  possible 
rivalry.  Shaun  was  still  her  first  and  dearest  friend, 
the  cleverest  man  in  the  world.  Peter  was  the  most 
charming  boy  she  had  ever  met,  who  might  in  the  course 
of  time  become  a  friend  of  Shaun 's  standing.  Her  mind 
and  emotions  were  bewildered  by  the  complexity  of  the 
opposing  influences  which  were  being  brought  to  bear. 
Peter  Middleton  was  making  love  to  her  without  either 
of  them  being  aware  of  it.  Shaun  was  making  love  to 
her  against  his  own  will  and  in  a  very  insidious  way. 
She  liked  him  sufficiently  well  to  suppose  that  if  he  tried 
hard  he  might  persuade  her  against  her  better  judgment, 
and  was  resolute  in  believing  he  would  not  try.  On  the 
other  hand,  Laurence  had  announced  his  intention  of 
marrying  her,  and  he  had  the  peculiar  knack  of  making 
her  do  what  she  did  not  want  to  do ;  even,  on  occasion, 
things  she  thought  wrong.  No  amount  of  self-analysis 
revealed  the  origin  of  this  power,  and  in  secret  she  was  a 
trifle  afraid  of  him.  She  detested  flirting  of  all  things 
in  the  world ;  and  twice  he  had  succeeded  in  making  her 
flirt.  She  was  too  innocent.  Mothers  of  tke  type  and 
class  of  Lady  Bremner  bring  up  their  daughters  almost 
entirely  with  a  view  to  matrimony — and  neglect  the  most 
important  point  of  all.  They  do  not  tell  them  what 
marriage  means.  Cynthia  had  no  idea  that  the  difference 
between  being  the  wife  of  Shaun  or  Laurence  would  be 
a  very  great  matter,  so  long  as  she  married  the  one  she 
loved.  And  at  present  she  loved  neither,  at  least  she 
thought  not.  If  she  did,  love  was  a  fearful  disappoint- 
ment! 

She  felt  more  disposed  to  make  an  attempt  to  earn  her 
own  living  than  to  marry,  although  both  were  possible 
means  of  obtaining  the  freedom  that  was  a  necessity  of 
her  soul.  The  situation  of  Peter  had  made  little  impres- 
sion upon  her  as  yet  and  she  honestly  thought  him  freer 
than  herself.  The  simplest  deductions  are  often  the  most 
difficult  to  make  and  one  does  not  need  to  be  blind  not 
to  see  what  is  immediately  before  one's  eyes;  otherwise 
there  would  be  no  such  thing  as  learning  by  bitter 


78  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

experience  and  the  young  would  be  rulers  of  the  world. 

How  was  she  to  earn  it,  that  was  the  problem  ?  As  an 
actress?  Mummy  would  be  horrified  at  the  idea.  As  a 
governess,  then?  No.  Cynthia  Bremner  had  seen  too 
many  governesses  to  envy  them.  As  an  inspector  of 
factories,  like  Helen  Taliesin  ?  She  possessed  no  qualifi- 
cations for  such  skilled  and  useful  work.  Brought  face 
to  face  with  the  facts  she  realised  that  she  was  not 
suitable  for  any  kind  of  employment.  It  came  as  a 
shock  to  Cynthia,  who  asked  herself  next  what  happened 
to  girls  like  her  if  their  parents  suddenly  lost  their  money 
and  died,  and  no  one  appeared  to  help  them.  Fortu- 
nately for  her  peace  of  mind  she  did  not  know  the 
answer. 

Laurence  Man  had  arrived  at  the  King  Arthur 's  Castle 
Hotel  at  a  propitious  moment,  as  his  luck  generally 
enabled  him  to  do.  He  was  invited  by  messenger  to  a 
picnic  at  the  Ladies'  Window  Rock  with  the  'young 
people '  on  the  following  day.  Peter,  issuing  from  happy 
dreams,  sorrowed  because  his  lady  did  not  play  or  sing 
that  evening.  He  thought  'her  candid  front  was  lined 
by  care'  an4  looked  so  woebegone  that  Joyce,  coming 
unconcernedly  to  have  her  hair-ribbon  tied — she  liked  to 
make  use  of  him — murmured  a  fervent,  "Buck  up, 
Peter.  Don't  be  a  silly!"  She  knew  That  One  would 
imitate  him,  and  two  faces  of  such  a  length  would  attract 
unwelcome  comment  from  Alan.  Joyce  did  not  care  to 
have  anyone  but  herself  tease  Peter.  She  was  an  affec- 
tionate child  in  spite  of  her  chaffing  ways. 


IX 

CYNTHIA  awoke  to  see  the  sunshine  streaming  through 
her  blinds.  She  was  disappointed  in  the  weather.  So 
was  the  lady 's  maid,  Marie,  who  disliked  carrying  towels 
and  bathing  costumes.  No  one  else  was,  not  even  Sir 
Everard,  who  was  a  fisherman  but  no  mere  murderer  of 
fish ;  not  even  Peter,  although  he  knew  Laurence  would 
dominate  the  picnic.  He  hoped  for  moments  alone  with 
Cynthia,  counting  on  the  help  of  Joyce  with  whom  he 
had  now  a  first-rate  silent  understanding;  in  any  event 
he  would  have  his  lady  constantly  in  sight,  performing 
the  miraculous  feats  of  walking,  speaking,  and  smiling. 
Lady  Bremner,  who  expected  most  from  the  day,  had 
to  be  careful  to  forget  all  that  she  would  suffer  by 
Laurence 's  success  in  order  to  avoid  weakening  her  reso- 
lution. Having  done  it,  she  visited  the  children's  bed- 
rooms to  request  them  to  wear  their  most  becoming 
frocks,  deceiving  none  by  the  ruse  of  adorning  all. 
"Why  does  she  bother  about  us?"  asked  Phyllis,  arriv- 
ing in  Joyce's  room  in  an  elaborate  dressing- jacket  of 
transparent  lace,  which  she  wanted  to  have  admired. 
"Don't  be  such  an  ass,"  answered  the  younger  girl 
crossly.  "You  know  as  well  as  I  do." 

Phyllis  flung  out  slender,  rounded  arms,  from  which 
the  Mechlin  fell  back  in  a  way  that  drew  attention  to 
their  beauties  as  well  as  its  own,  and  pretended  to  yawn. 
' '  Seen  this  lace  of  mine  ? ' '  she  fished. 

Joyce  did  not  trouble  to  look.  "  I  'm  not  a  man, ' '  she 
said,  witheringly.  "You  needn't  bother,  Phyl.  I  know 
you  've  got  a  thundering  lot  of  hair,  but  I  don 't  want  to 
see  you  sit  upon  it  this  morning,  thank  you.  And  Cyn 
has  more  anyway,  and  hers  has  golden  lights  in  it  which 
is  a  jolly  sight  better  than  your  tarry  stuff.  Clear  out, 
and  let  me  dress  in  peace ! ' ' 

Phyllis  using  the  high  top  rail  of  the  end  of  the  bed 
as  a  horizontal  bar  lifted  herself  to  a  sitting  posture  with 

79 


80  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

legs  outstretched  in  front  of  her.  "You're  a  cheeky 
kid!"  she  observed.  "Now  what  d'you  bet  I  won't 
throw  a  somersault  backwards  on  to  the  mattress?" 

"Anyone  could  fall  back  on  a  bed,"  jeered  Joyce. 

"I'm  not  talking  of  a  fall  back.  I  mean  a  proper 
somersault  coming  down  on  my  feet." 

Joyce  was  intrigued.  She  came  and  stood  in  front  of 
the  carefully  balancing  Phyllis.  "I  bet  you  can't!" 
she  said  at  last,  with  her  head  on  one  side.  "And  you 
daren  't  try. ' ' 

"What  will  you  bet?"  persisted  Phyllis,  and  she 
jeopardised  her  chance  of  a  big  wager  by  clasping  her 
hands  behind  her  neck,  which  was  skilful.  "Will  you 
leave  me  alone  with  Peter  against  my  promising  to 
take  Mr.  Man  from  Rosie?" 

Joyce's  eyes  narrowed  as  she  deliberated,  and  Phyllis 
dropped  her  hands  and  took  hold  of  the  rail  in  readiness. 

"Why  should  you  want  to  bother  Peter?"  protested 
Joyce.  "You  know  he  likes  Cyn  better,  and  you're  al- 
ways talking  about  friendship!  Why  don't  you  be  a 
silly  old  Suffragette  again  as  you  used  to  be,  and  leave 
men  alone?" 

Phyllis  tossed  back  her  black  mane  and  tightened  her 
grip.  "Yes  or  no,  and  be  quick  about  it!"  she  cried. 
"I'm  not  going  to  stay  up  here  all  day!  You  don't 
believe  I  can  do  the  somersault,  so  why  be  in  a  funk?" 

"You're  only  boasting,  and  it's  yes!"  decided  Joyce. 
A  whirl  of  white  limbs  and  garments  answered  the 
challenge,  and  Phyllis  was  on  the  quilt,  knees  bent,  sav- 
ing herself  with  both  hands  from  falling  forward.  She 
sprang  upright  and  shook  her  hair  from  her  eyes. 

"There!"  said  the  victor,  triumphantly,  leaping  to 
the  floor,  "I'll  teach  you  to  despise  my  gym,  Miss  Joyce ! 
You  don 't  seem  to  understand  how  good  I  am  at  gym ! ' ' 
And  Joyce  was  aghast.  In  silence  she  watched  Phyl- 
lis pursue  a  slipper  which  had  flown  into  a  far  corner 
of  the  room,  turn  it  right  way  up,  and  insert  her 
little  bare  foot.  "I'll  let  Rosie  see  me  with  him," 
threatened  That  One  as  she  withdrew  in  high  feather 
to  her  own  apartment;  and  when  she  was  gone  Joyce 


THE  WINGS  OF  YOUTH  81 

threw  herself  on  the  bed  in  despair  and  burst  into  tears. 

Alan  and  Miss  Taliesin  had  agreed  to  guide  them  as 
far  as  Willapark  before  departing  on  an  expedition  of 
their  own ;  Alan  was  to  point  out  the  breeding-place  of 
the  choughs.  The  party  found  Laurence  in  the  lounge 
of  the  'King  Arthur's  Castle,'  looking  very  much  at 
home  there.  He  brightened  on  catching  sight  of  Cynthia 
and,  coming  forward,  greeted  all  warmly,  not  excepting 
surprised  Peter,  who  had  not  looked  for  cordiality. 
Peter,  however,  soon  became  an  onlooker. 

The  first  thing  to  strike  him  was  their  exceptional 
collective  good  looks.  Laurence's  handsome  countenance 
was  almost  saintly  with  the  sunlight  upon  it ;  Alan  was 
gentlemanly  in  features  and  bearing;  Cynthia  was  a 
lovely  girl,  who  just  fell  short  of  perfect  beauty  (which 
Peter  could  not  and  never  did  admit)  ;  little  Phyllis 's 
black  and  white  and  rose  made  her  equally  striking  at 
first  sight,  and  there  was  no  flaw  in  her  brilliant,  con- 
ventional prettiness ;  Joyce  had  an  odd,  attractive  face ; 
and  Miss  Taliesin — well,  it  must  be  admitted  she  was 
hopelessly  plain.  He  took  a  second  glance  round  the 
circle.  Laurence  was  in  white  flannels,  Alan  in  an  old 
golfing  suit;  the  girls,  as  usual,  all  in  white — Cynthia 
with  gold  belt  and  brown  shoes  and  stockings,  Phyllis 
with  a  scarlet  tie  and  belt,  bare  ankles  and  white  shoes, 
and  Joyce  with  a  pink  ribbon  in  her  hair,  a  tie  to  match, 
bare  legs  and  grey  sand-shoes;  Lady  Bremner  having 
given  in  to  Phyllis 's  persistent  disobedience  in  the  matter 
of  stockings  had  had  to  let  the  younger  girl  leave  them 
off  also.  Cynthia's  hat  was  a  Panama.  Phyllis  wore  a 
floppy  muslin  affair  with  a  big  scarlet  bow  in  front,  and 
Joyce  had  a  straw  hat  with  her  school  colours.  Miss 
Taliesin  was  dressed  in  green;  on  her  head  was  a, very 
ugly  cloth  cap.  She  looked  thirty-five,  Peter  thought; 
Cynthia,  about  twenty;  Phyllis,  seventeen;  and  Joyce, 
fourteen — her  real  age.  His  other  guesses  went  astray, 
as  Miss  Taliesin  was  only  twenty-seven;  Phyllis  being 
nineteen,  and  Cynthia  more  than  twenty-one.  It  struck 
him  that  of  them  all  Laurence  and  'That  One'  seemed 


82  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

most  in  place  in  the  lounge  of  the  hotel.  Although  Miss 
Taliesin  was  of  a  type  often  to  be  met  travelling,  she  did 
not  look  appropriate,  and  the  others  needed  the  severer 
and  finer  background  of  a  private  house  to  do  them  full 
justice. 

On  hearing  that  Marie  had  been  sent  to  Bossiney  to 
await  them  with  bathing  gear,  Laurence  excused  himself, 
and  returned  with  his;  and  then  they  started,  Joyce 
lagging  behind  with  Peter.  The  child's  conscience  was 
teasing  her  as  to  the  consequences  of  her  bet  lost  to 
Phyllis.  She  had  become  attached  to  Peter,  who  was 
always  kind  and  interested,  and  treated  her  as  a  civilised 
being.  Schoolgirls  grow  tired  of  being  chaffed,  and  they 
do  not  love  being  condescended  to  any  more  than  does 
the  average  grown-up  person.  Joyce  had  brains  and 
humour.  She  did  not  worship  the  male  sex,  and  she 
found  men,  although  pre-eminent  in  the  activities  of 
cricket  and  hockey,  dull  of  understanding  where  girls 
and  women  were  concerned.  She  idolised  her  games- 
mistress  who  combined  wisdom  with  prowess;  but  she 
doubted  whether  C.  B.  Fry  could  sympathise  with  the 
workings  of  her  mind  or  perceive  the  really  funny  things 
that  constantly  happened  before  her  eyes.  Peter  did 
sometimes  see  them,  not  always  by  any  means,  still  a 
great  deal  oftener  than  any  man  except  the  terrible 
Shaun  James,  who  had  only  to  look  at  her  to  read  her 
inmost  thoughts.  Few  feminine  beings  like  to  be  under- 
stood by  men,  and  young  girls  are  often  particularly 
shy  in  this  respect.  Joyce  feared  Shaun  as  she  did 
no  one  else,  although  she  had  nothing  in  the  world  to 
conceal  or  be  ashamed  of. 

She  was  as  sweet  to  Peter  as  she  knew  how,  and  all 
the  way  up  the  breathless  ascent  to  the  headland  of 
Willapark  she  was  telling  him  about  her  beloved  school, 
and  her  wonderful  mistresses  surpassing  those  of  any 
other  girl  as  pearls  do  bricks;  and  how  the  girls  were 
divided  for  games,  not  according  to  forms  but  into  sec- 
tions regulated  by  age  and  strength;  namely,  First  and 
Second  Greeks,  First  and  Second  Trojans,  Big  Cats  and 
Little  Cats,  Big  Mice  and  Little  Mice ;  and  of  the  fright- 


THE  WINGS  OF  YOUTH  83 

ful  excitement  when,  as  occasionally  happened,  the  First 
Trojans  challenged  the  First  Greeks  and  beat  them.  She 
herself  had  just  ceased  to  be  a  Big  Cat  and  had  entered 
the  ranks  of  the  Second  Trojans.  Had  Peter  noticed 
her  colours,  pink  and  white  ?  Cyn  wasn  't  at  school  long 
enough  to  get  higher  than  the  First  Trojans,  but  she  was 
frightfully  good  at  games  then.  .Did  Peter  like  hockey? 
Joyce  loved  it,  and  cricket  next,  and  then  swimming. 
That  One  had  been  at  a  stupid  school  where  there  wasn't 
a  swimming-bath  and  there  weren't  enough  of  them  to 
play  games  properly,  so  they  golfed  and  did  a  lot  of  gym, 
and  thought  a  heap  of  themselves.  She  didn  't  like  stuck- 
up  girls,  did  Peter  ?  Did  he  see  those  two  birds  up  high, 
big  ones?  .  .  .  "No,  there,  Peter,  like  aeroplanes!" 

' '  See  the  buzzards  ? ' '  shouted  Alan  from  in  front. 

Now  they  reached  the  summit  of  the  enormous  head- 
land, and  on  Phyllis  turning  to  wave  a  hand  to  them 
Joyce  became  moody  and  found  no  more  to  say.  Peter 
talked  to  her  about  cricket  until  they  came  to  the  Tye 
Rock  cliff,  where  the  rest  were  waiting.  Here  a  general 
consultation  took  place.  While  Alan  was  marshalling 
his  forces,  Cynthia  told  Joyce,  quietly,  "That  One  is 
full  of  yearnings,  to-day,"  to  which  the  child  replied 
with  grimness,  "That  One  will  grow  out  of  them!" 

"Attention,  please,"  said  Alan.  "It's  a  scramble  on 
turf  down  the  slope  as  far  as  you  can  see,  and  then  a 
stiff  climb  down  the  rocks  to  the  level  of  the  water, 
which  isn't  a  great  distance  further.  The  nest  is  in 
the  roof  of  a  cave,  and  you  have  to  get  below  it  to 
see.  Rose,  you've  got  to  come,  I  know  you're  all  right. 
Joyce,  I'll  let  you  try,  but  you  must  turn  back  if  you 
get  frightened." 

"Which  I  shan't!"  said  Joyce,  promptly. 

"I'll  tuck  you  under  my  arm  and  carry  you,  if  you 
interrupt!  Miss  Taliesin  will  make  the  attempt  to  get 
down,  Peter  I  hope  won 't ;  and  if  we  put  up  the  birds  he 
may  get  a  better  view  of  them  than  we  do.  Man,  are 
you  coming?" 

"Most  emphatically!"  replied  Laurence,  looking  at 
Cynthia. 


84  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

"You  needn't  come  on  Sissy's  account,"  said  Alan. 
' '  She 's  a  first-class  mountaineer.  Still,  delighted  to  have 
you  with  us,  of  course.  Phyllis,  you  darling  girl,  your 
little  f eatherhead  is  easily  turned,  I  believe  ? ' ' 

Joyce  was  on  the  point  of  bursting  in  with  a  denial, 
but  Phyllis  silenced  her  by  a  glance.  ' '  Remember  your 
promise!"  said  the  quick  wave  of  her  hand.  "Leave 
me  with  Peter!"  commanded  the  black  eyes.  "Do!" 
formed  the  scarlet  lips,  beseechingly. 

"You  told  me  so,  when  it  was  a  question  of  my  com- 
ing on  the  last  occasion,"  said  Phyllis,  demurely.  "I 
think  I  'd  better  stay  up  here,  please ! ' ' 

"All  right,"  said  Alan.    "Take  my  hand,  Joyce." 

So  Peter  and  Phyllis  lay  on  the  grass  to  watch.  Half- 
way down  the  steep  declivity  Miss  Taliesin  was  seen  to 
be  in  difficulties,  and  Alan  left  Joyce  to  go  by  herself 
and  went  and  helped  her.  Cynthia  was  ahead,  balancing 
with  careless  ease  and  descending  swiftly.  Laurence's 
pursuit  looked  dangerous  from  above,  and  he  stumbled 
twice.  At  the  place  where  the  precipitous  rock  began 
Miss  Taliesin  found  a  seat,  and  remained  in  sight  after 
the  others  had  disappeared  downwards  one  by  one. 

"Wouldn't  you  have  thought  I  had  a  steady  head?" 
inquired  Phyllis,  moving  nearer  so  that  he  might  have  an 
opportunity  of  examining  it. 

Peter  sighed.  "I'm  sure  you're  a  daring  climber," 
he  said. 

"I  am,"  said  Phyllis.    "I  don't  fear  anything." 

"You're  tactful  to-day,  Phyllis!" 

She  shook  her  head  at  him  reproachfully,  quite  un- 
abashed. ' '  You  don 't  understand  me  a  bit  yet,  Peter. ' ' 

"I'm  tired  of  hearing  you  say  that,"  muttered  Peter. 

"What  are  you  growling  about,  like  a  big  bear?  Of 
course  I  wasn't  jeering  at  you.  Aren't  we  Friends?  I 
want  to  consult  you  about  something,  Peter." 

"Well,  what?" 

"Please  be  nice.  Tell  me  the  honest,  truthful  truth. 
Do  you  think  I'm  a  selfish  girl?" 

"I  don't  know  enough  about  you  to  judge." 

"Oh,  you  do!    You  might  tell  me,  Peter." 


THE  WINGS  OP  YOUTH  85 

He  was  aroused  to  indignation.  "Look  here,  Phyllis. 
If  I  told  you,  it  would  only  mean  you'd  argue  with 
me  for  half  an  hour  and  end  up  by  swearing  I  didn't 
understand  you  a  bit.  What's  the  use?" 

Vivien  wriggled  a  little  closer  to  King  Arthur  and  told 
him  not  to  be  a  cross  boy.  Could  he  look  at  her  and 
continue  ill-humoured?  No  one  else  could!  (An  in- 
ternal reservation  was  made  as  to  sex.)  When  people 
looked  into  her  eyes  they  called  her  bewitching,  or 
tantalising  or  fetching,  or  pretty  or  lovely,  but  never 
did  they  remain  out  of  temper ! 

"I  can,"  said  Peter,  firmly. 

'  *  I  dare  you ! ' '  cried  the  minx. 

Long  afterwards  Peter  asked  Shaun  James  what  he 
ought  to  have  done  in  this  emergency.  "Kiss  her  and 
talk  to  her  about  her  soul,"  replied  the  expert. — "But 
she  hasn't  got  one. "—"  That 's  a  trifle."-  "Besides,  I 
don't  want  to  kiss  miscellaneous  girls,"  objected 
Peter.  .  .  . 

' '  All  right, ' '  he  said  in  a  ridiculously  portentous  voice, 
and  turning,  faced  her  squarely.  She  was  lying  with 
her  head  supported  on  her  hands.  Her  wide-open  mis- 
chievous eyes  deepened  to  innocence  under  his  gaze  and 
became  roguish  again  as  her  lips  parted  and  she  smiled. 
Peter  smiled,  too.  He  could  not  help  himself. 

"Thank  you,"  he  said,  "for  restoring  my  good 
humour. ' ' 

"I've  won!"  sparkled  Phyllis,  and  then  invitingly, 
"Aren't  you  going  to,  Peter?  Won't  you?" 

She  was  fascinating,  but  Peter  was  armed.  He  shook 
his  head. 

"I  don't  understand  you  a  bit,"  he  teased,  thinking 
himself  out  of  reach.  Phyllis,  however,  like  the  Vivien 
she  had  compared  herself  to,  could  writhe  swiftly  as  a 
snake.  She  did  so  now  and  kissed  Peter,  entirely  taken 
by  surprise,  fairly  on  the  left  cheek. 

"You  shouldn't  have  dared  me!"  she  said,  sitting  up, 
flushed  and  rather  ashamed.  She  had  known  that  the 
others  were  mounting  the  slope,  and  was  now  calling 
herself,  most  justifiably,  a  cat  of  cats. 


86  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

' '  I  got  part  of  the  way  down  the  cliff ;  didn  't  I,  Alan  ? ' ' 
called  Joyce  in  high  excitement,  as  the  toilers  approached 
the  top.  She  had  evidently  observed  nothing,  so  that 
was  one  accounted  for.  Cynthia  had  a  bright  colour, 
for  which  the  climbing  might  be  responsible.  She  spoke 
to  Peter.  ''The  cave  is  very  big,  with  an  entrance  like 
the  nave  of  a  cathedral.  And  the  sea  conies  into  it  and 
makes  a  whispering  sound.  We  saw  the  nest  quite 
plainly.  How  would  you  describe  it,  Alan?" 

"A  good,  symmetrical  nest." 

"It  is  up  high,  and  the  mother  bird  flew  out.  We  saw 
her  red  legs  and  beak,  so  there  could  not  be  any  mistake. 
Did  you  see  her,  Phyllis?" 

"No,"  said  Phyllis,  with  hanging  head,  for  she  felt 
her  cheeks  burning.  One  of  Peter 's  was  equally  hot ;  and 
he  guessed  for  the  first  time  what  a  girl 's  sensations  must 
be  when  the  wrong  man  unexpectedly  snatches  a  kiss. 
He  pitied  the  girl. 

"  I  'd  sooner  face  an  angry  meeting  than  go  down  that 
slope  again, ' '  exclaimed  Miss  Taliesin,  as  soon  as  she  was 
safely  over  the  edge. 

Alan's  voice  was  different  when  he  spoke  to  her. 
"You  aren't  called  upon  to  do  either  unless  you  wish," 
he  said.  Laurence,  stooping  for  his  towel,  turned  his 
head,  but  Miss  Taliesin  did  not  answer. 

Then  they  marched  to  Bossiney  Haven,  where  they 
met  Marie  bearing  towels,  accompanied  by  a  boy  who 
staggered  under  the  luncheon  basket.  ' '  Poor  kid ! ' '  said 
Cynthia,  and  tipped  him  twice  as  much  as  was  necessary. 
On  the  western  side  of  the  cove  stands  the  Elephant 
Rock;  Joyce  and  Phyllis  bathed  from  behind  the  trunk 
of  the  elephant  where  there  is  a  natural  dressing-room. 
Laurence  found  another  and  joined  them,  but  Miss 
Taliesin  changed  her  mind  and  remained  with  Peter  and 
Cynthia,  keeping  alive  the  conversation,  as  she  was  fated 
to  do  whenever  the  former  was  present.  They  sat  on  the 
beach  watching,  and  Marie  stood  by  the  water's  edge 
with  cloaks  and  kept  a  satiric  eye  on  Miss  Phyllis,  whom 
she  suspected  as  only  a  cynical  Frenchwoman  can  sus- 
pect. If  Phyllis  could  have  read  her  sentiments  the 


THE  WINGS  OF  YOUTH  87 

shock  might  have  caused  her  to  behave  more  carefully 
iii  the  future !  Nothing,  however,  could  exceed  her  cor- 
rectness now;  Joyce,  who  was  swimming  about  by  her- 
self, was  overjoyed  and  thought  that  probably  That 
One  had  given  up  the  idea  of  mischief  for  the  day. 
Laughing  and  splashing  in  the  shallows,  with  inno- 
cent eyes,  Phyllis  did  not  betray  her  mind,  which 
was  ashamed  and  alarmed.  She  knew  that  she 
was  detected;  Cynthia  had  not  deceived  her  for  a 
moment. 

At  last  the  bathers  came  out  of  the  water,  and  Alan 
returned  from  his  stroll  inland.  Both  Peter  and  Cynthia 
were  relieved.  They  were  in  dread  of  being  left  to- 
gether, for  Peter  was  by  this  time  sensible  of  a  change 
in  the  girl's  manner  which  could  only  be  explained  on 
the  supposition  that  she  had  seen  the  naughty  deed  on 
the  cliff.  His  brain  was  in  a  tumult,  and  his  worst 
fears  were  realised  when  on  starting  he  asked  her  to 
walk  with  him  and  was  answered,  ' '  I  don 't  want  to  walk 
with  you,  Peter."  The  courage  that  he  had  collected 
in  order  to  make  the  request  dissolved  on  the  instant, 
and  Miss  Taliesin  found  him  not  merely  distrait  but 
positively  wanting  in  wits. 

After  the  descent  into  the  Rocky  Valley,  the  beauties 
of  which  were  lost  upon  Peter,  she  and  Alan  said  good- 
bye and  turned  aside  to  explore  it  thoroughly.  Cynthia 
now  ran  in  front,  fleeing  from  herself  as  well  as  from 
Laurence,  who  was  close  at  her  heels.  The  two  sprang 
over  the  stream  and  up  the  rugged  track  as  though 
pursued,  and  Joyce  and  Phyllis,  not  to  be  outdone, 
were  after  them  like  mountain  goats.  On  the  path 
across  the  plateau  above  Cynthia  still  led  the  way, 
Laurence  having  dropped  behind;  and  the  party  filed 
singly  along  the  cliff  edge,  a  row  of  white-clad  girls 
and  men.  Ahead  of  them  came  into  view  their  objective, 
the  pierced  crag,  hanging  high  above  the  sea,  called  the 
Ladies'  Window.  On  their  right  were  grass  uplands, 
which  rose  beyond  Travalga  Village  to  the  sweep  of  the 
downs;  on  their  left  was  an  airy  void.  The  sun  was 
burning  hot.  No  cloud  moved  in  the  blue,  and  the  ocean 


88  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

was  silent;  its  surface  glittering  and  flashing  like  a 
great  sheet  of  beaten  steel. 

Arrived  at  the  crag  Cynthia  climbed  through  and 
without  hesitation  stepped  down  on  the  narrow  ledge 
which  is  the  brink  of  the  precipice.  "The  water  is 
wonderfully  clear!"  she  cried.  "I  can  make  out  the 
veins  in  the  boulders  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea." 

Laurence  spoke  to  Peter  and  Joyce.  "Will  you  leave 
me  with  Miss  Bremner  afterwards?  I  should  be  very 
grateful." 

"All  right,"  said  Peter,  unwillingly,  as  Cynthia  ap- 
peared in  the  cleft.  "Who's  coming  next?"  she  asked, 
and  leapt  to  the  ground. 

"Not  I,  thanks,"  said  Laurence.  "I  value  my  life 
too  much  just  now." 

"  I  '11  go, "  called  Phyllis,  eager  to  prove  the  steadiness 
of  her  nerves,  but  on  seeing  what  was  before  her  she 
got  Cynthia  to  stand  close  and  hold  her  hand  through 
the  opening  while  she  snatched  a  glance  over  the  edge. 

"I  suppose  we  must  let  him,"  whispered  Joyce  to 
Peter. 

"Can't  help  it,  I'm  afraid!" 

"Come  along,  then.  I  don't  want  to  go  through 
there." 

And  when  Phyllis  returned  and  ran  after  them, 
Laurence  begged  the  surprised  Cynthia  to  sit  down  and 
chat. 

"There  are  seal  caves  below  these  cliffs,"  he  told 
her,  "and  a  wreck,  five  fathoms  down,  like  the  Santa 
Catharina  below  the  Shutter,  where  Amyas  sat  in  West- 
ward Ho!" 

Cynthia  sprang  alertly  to  her  feet.  "No,  no,"  he 
cried,  amused.  "It  isn't  to  be  seen  from  above.  What 
a  restless  girl  you  are!"  ' 

"It's  a  holiday,"  said  Cynthia,  excusing  herself.  She 
dropped  down  further  away. 

Laurence  collected  himself,  summoned  all  his  energies 
of  intellect  and  will,  and  said:  "Rosemary,  please  listen 
in  patience  to  the  whole  of  what  I  am  going  to  say, 
before  beginning  to  form  a  decision.  I  love  you,  and 


THE  WINGS  OF  YOUTH  89 

I  want  you  to  marry  me.  I  know  you  are  not  what 
is  called  'in  love'  with  me,  and  that  it  would  be  your 
first  impulse  to  refuse  me  hastily.  That  is  natural  and 
right  enough,  but  you  must  not  act  on  impulse.  You 
have  brains.  You  are  not  an  ordinary  silly  girl,  and 
I  am  sure  you  are  too  just  to  refuse  me  a  hearing. 
May  I  go  on?" 

The  unexpectedness  of  the  appeal  made  its  effect  on 
Cynthia.  Her  generosity  and  her  vanity  were  attacked 
with  equal  skill,  and  her  first  fluttered  shyness  almost 
dispelled  by  his  tone  of  studied  moderation.  She  had 
never  been  proposed  to  in  this  way  before.  The  novelty, 
coming  from  Laurence,  brought  a  startled  sense  of  relief, 
and  curiosity  helped  him  as  well.  There  was  nothing  in 
his  appearance  to  warn  her,  as  his  eyes  were  bent  on  the 
ground.  He  had  self-control  enough  left  not  to  look  at 
her.  She  stole  a  glance,  and  reassured, ' '  Yes ! ' '  she  said. 

"You  want  freedom,  I've  seen  that.  I  can  give  you 
freedom.  You  are  ambitious,  I  also.  We  should  start 
sufficiently  high  and  there  would  be  no  limit  to  the  power 
we  might  obtain  if  we  chose  to  employ  our  abilities 
socially.  To  do  this  requires  a  developed  intellect,  and 
you  are  not  afraid  of  work.  If  you  marry  me  you 
will  become  what  you  were  intended  to  be,  a  woman 
of  brains  and  authority  as  well  as  of  charm  and  beauty. 
I  love  you.  I  would  be  good  to  you  as  in  me  lay.  Will 
you  pity  me?" 

What  rose  to  her  mind  was  the  memory  of  the  hate- 
fulness  of  Peter.  Stammering,  she  said:  "I  do-don 't 
love  you,  do  - 1  ? "  Because  his  passion  went  deep  he 
was  aware  she  did  not,  but  his  self-control  was  leav- 
ing him,  and  victory  seemed  very  near  to  sight. 

"I  think  you  might  yet,"  he  said.  "You've  been 
near  it  once  or  twice!" 

She  looked  at  him,  terrified  at  she  knew  not  what, 
but  far  from  comprehension.  "Oh,  I  haven't!"  she 
protested,  unconsciously  cruel. 

He  made  a  last  effort,  rigid,  holding  himself  in.  "You 
could  be  so  very  free,  you  know,"  he  pleaded.  "You 
could  do  and  learn  and  see  just  whatever  you  wanted  all 


90  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

the  rest  of  your  life.  And  have  your  own  friends.  I  'm 
not  a  jealous  man."  (Did  he  believe  the  lie?)  "You 
could  go  out  and  come  in  at  your  own  times,  visit  art 
galleries,  choose  dresses,  read  and  study,  motor.  You 
could  dive  and  swim  as  much  as  you  pleased." 

He  had  lost!  "Phyllis  has  been  talking,"  was 
Cynthia's  first,  carelessly  secure  deduction.-  Then  she 
remembered.  At  Portman  Square  he  had  wanted  to 
know  if  she  swam.  He  had  spoken  of  visiting  Corn- 
wall simply  to  bathe  with  her.  He  had !  Her 

thoughts  stopped  with  a  sudden  jar  and  flew  on  racing. 
What  did  being  married  mean?  Yes,  yes,  but  it  was 
natural,  there  wasn't  any  immodesty,  Mummy  had  said 
so.  What  made  her  think  of  it  now  ?  That  wasn  't  the 
important  part  of  being  married,  was  it  ?  ...  Laurence 
would  deny  it,  if  she  asked  him.  He  'd  talked  as  though 
other  things  were  more  important  .  .  .  talked  of  her 
mode  of  life,  her  freedom ;  never  mentioned  companion- 
ship. What  could  be  his  point  of  view?  Why,  he  had 
not  .  .  .  No,  not  once  had  he  spoken  of  himself !  What 
would  she  be  to  him? 

"Wait  a  minute,"  she  said  aloud,  with  the  feeling  as 
if  a  cold  hand  were  clutching  at  her  heart.  She  trembled 
with  fear.  She  remembered  how  in  her  bedroom  one 
night,  after  gazing  at  'Eve'  upon  the  wall,  she  had 
slipped  a  white  arm  from  her  nightgown,  turned  to  her 
mirror  and,  taking  the  exact  pose  of  the  statue,  had  let 
the  garment  fall  to  the  ground  and  looked  with  shy 
wonderment  on  her  naked  beauty.  The  reflection  had 
startled  her  with  the  sight  of  a  young  divinity,  tall  and 
slender,  whose  bare  body  and  limbs  shone  in  the  blaze  of 
the  electric  light  with  the  clearness  of  marble,  a  girl 
supple  and  vigorous  as  Diana,  graceful  as  '  Eve '  herself, 
crowned  with  a  great  wreath  of  hair,  having  wide,  grey 
eyes  that  dropped  abashed  before  hers,  while  the  splendid 
shoulders  and  even  the  arms  of  the  vision  grew  rose- 
stained,  as  they  stooped  towards  the  drapery  about  the 
snowy  little  feet.  .  .  .  She  was  beautiful !  Was  this  what 
Mr.  Man  desired  in  return — she  would  not  think  of  him 
again  as  Laurence — was  it  her  beauty? 


THE  WINGS  OF  YOUTH  91 

"No,"  she  said,  "I'm  sorry!     I  can't  marry  you." 

Laurence  had  seen  her  cheeks  and  neck  flush  red.  His 
own  face  darkened  into  sombreness. 

"I  love  you,"  he  repeated. 

"You  don't!"  said  Cynthia,  rudely  and  hotly. 

"I  do!"  he  replied,  fixing  his  gaze  upon  her.  "You 
silly  child!  You  little  fool!  You  don't  know  how  a 
man  can  love.  You  are  afraid  to  know." 

"I  am,"  she  said,  briefly,  turning  her  face  away. 

"A  coward!  Cynthia  Bremner,  a  coward,  before 
what '[ 

"I've  given  you  my  answer!" 

"I  won't  take  it." 

"You  must!" 

"I  tell  you  I  will  not,  Cynthia." 

"Don't  call  me  by  that  name!  I've  never  given  yon 
leave.  Never !  Never ! ' ' 

"It's  Shaun  James's  name,  isn't  it?"  shouted 
Laurence.  "And  I  am  not  to  use  it!  No,  but  young 
Middleton  may!  I'll  make  him  suffer  for  that,  Rose- 
mary! And  James,  your  Platonic  friend,  making  love 
to  you  all  the  time,  the  dirty  sneak  !- 


I  hate  you!    Please,  be  silent.1 


"You  hate  me,  and  he  makes  love  to  you  all  the  time, 
the  cad!  Please  be  silent!  Oh,  yes,  I'll  be  silent,  for 
I  feel  like  silence!"  He  lowered  his  voice  suddenly, 
almost  to  a  whisper,  touching  the  ground  on  either  side 
of  him  with  his  fingers  as  if  to  assure  himself  of  reality. 
"You've  ended  me.  God!  How  I  love  you!  And 
Shaun  James  gets  you.  He  gets  you,  after  all,  the 
sneak ! ' ' 

' '  He  doesn  't ! "  said  Cynthia,  great  tears  rolling  down 
her  cheeks,  sobs  shaking  her  slender  body. 

"Will  you  swear  that?    Will  you,  will  you?" 

"No,  no,  I  can't."  At  this  moment  Shaun  appeared 
in  her  thoughts  as  a  relieving  angel. 

Laurence  looked  at  her  craftily.  "Can  you  swear  he 
does  not  make  love  to  you — Mr.  Platonic  Shaun  ?  Your 
Mother  would  like  to  know,  and  so  should  I!" 

Cynthia  managed  to  fight  back  her  sobs,  and  faced  him 


92  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

bravely.  "I  do  hate  you,"  she  said,  "but  I'm  sorry  I 
was  brutal.  I  won't  answer  any  of  your  questions. 
Leave  me  alone,  please.  You've  said  enough,  and  we 
can't  understand  one  another  better." 

The  change  in  her  voice  acted  on  him  like  a  spell.  He 
threw  himself  before  her  and  kissed  her  silk-clad  ankles. 
"Forgive  me!"  he  cried.  "I  was  mad  to  speak  to  you 
like  that.  I  am  mad,  I  think.  But  I  love  you  so.  You 
believe  that,  Rosemary?  You  must  believe  it,  for  it's 
truth.  Only  care  for  me  a  very  little,  and  I  '11  be  perfect 
to  you,  and  snatch  the  Gates  of  Heaven,  if  you  want 
them,  for  a  plaything!  Oh,  my  saint,  forgive  me!" 

Gently  she  drew  her  feet  away,  and  he  sat  up.  She 
shook  her  head.  "It's  no  good!"  she  said.  "I'm 
awfully  sorry.  I  am  sorry  for  you,  Laurence."  The 
sign  of  weakness  brought  upon  her  a  fresh  torrent  of 
asseverations.  It  was  in  vain.  .  .  .  He  threatened,  and 
was  furious.  He  beat  at  her  defences.  The  others 
peeped  at  them  from  a  distance  and  went  away  again 
unperceived.  .  .  .  He  began  to  repeat  himself.  Cynthia 
was  faint  and  dizzy  and  deadly  tired  and  sick  at  heart, 
but  she  would  not  yield.  .  .  .  Then  suddenly  he  com- 
menced to  concentrate  the  whole  of  his  power  on  wring- 
ing from  her  a  single  concession.  Would  she  be  to 
him  as  before  ?  Would  she  let  him  see  her  ?  Cynthia  did 
not  wish  it;  she  knew  she  would  be  foolish  to  give  way 
on  that  point;  she  saw  clearly  how  much  more  it  would 
involve  than  the  promise  implied.  She  struggled  hard. 

"I'm  jolly  well  going  back,"  said  Joyce.  "I  don't 
believe  Cyn  wanted  to  be  left  with  him  all  this  time." 

"I  don't  care  what  he  thinks,"  agreed  Phyllis. 
"Come  along.  We  ought  to  be  starting,  anyway." 

"He's  had  a  good  innings,"  confirmed  Peter. 

"Anyone  can  see  what's  up!"  murmured  Phyllis,  as 
they  approached.  ' '  Now  talk  at  the  tops  of  your  voices. ' ' 

But  they  arrived  an  instant  too  late.  Cynthia  had 
committed  herself  to  friendship. 

On  the  way  back  she  recovered  her  spirits,  with  the 
elasticity  of  youth.  The  others  saw  that  she  was  pale, 


THE  WINGS  OF  YOUTH  93 

and  they  joked  and  laughed  to  cover  her  embarrassment 
until  she  was  able  to  share  their  mirth.  Then  That  One 
took  charge  of  Laurence,  who  had  not  said  a  single  word, 
and  marched  him  on  in  front,  and  Cynthia  began  to  tell 
Peter  of  her  merits,  partly  from  gratitude,  partly  from 
another  reason.  She  recited  to  him  the  accomplishments 
of  Phyllis,  who  could  do  fine  embroidery,  toe-dance,  play 
billiards  brilliantly,  write  poetry  (not  so  well),  speak 
French  and  Italian,  play  a  good  round  of  golf " 

"Fair  round  of  golf,"  from  Joyce  who  was  a  critic. 

' '  She  passed  the  Matric,  with  honours,  and  is  a  clever 
gymnast,"  Cynthia  concluded. 

"She  is  that,"  admitted  Joyce,  who  had  reason  to 
know.  "When  Auntie  doesn't  come  down  to  watch  us 
bathe,  she  stays  out  turning  cartwheels  and  doing  somer- 
saults on  her  hands  like  a  street-boy,  and  I  can't  get 
her  into  the  water." 

' '  She  won  the  gym  medal  at  school.  She 's  supple  and 
can  twist  herself  into  all  kinds  of  contortions."  Cyn- 
thia began  to  laugh :  ' '  Do  you  remember  Mother  catch- 
ing her  one  day?" 

Joyce  grinned  at  the  recollection.  "Don't  I,  Cyn! 
It  was  heavenly.  That  One  tied  up  in  knots,  and  trying 
to  disentangle  herself  while  Auntie  Emmie  just  gave  it 
her!  You  and  I  got  blamed  too." 

"You  did,  you  mean.     I  hadn't  encouraged  her!" 

"It's  the  only  time  I've  ever  seen  Phyl  go  scarlet. 
When  Auntie  had  done  with  her  she  was  like  a  tomato. ' ' 

"And  I'm  a  beast  to  give  her  away!"  cried  Cynthia, 
in  sudden  distress.  "I  meant  to  praise  her  to  Peter." 

"I  don't  know  why  you  should!"  exclaimed  Joyce, 
tactfully  departing  to  overtake  the  others. 

Peter  was  nettled  by  Cynthia's  tone,  which  had  cer- 
tainly implied  Phyllis  to  be  his  particular  chum,  if  not 
something  closer.  His  conscience  was  clear  regarding 
the  events  of  the  afternoon  and  he  was  glad  to  have  an 
explanation  at  last.  "I  don't  either,"  he  said  rather 
warmly.  ' '  She 's  a  nice  enough  girl,  but,  really,  Cynthia, 
she's  not  any  especial  friend  of  mine." 

Cynthia  gazed  straight  before  her.    "Isn't  she?" 


94  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

"No,  upon  my  honour!" 

"Then  why  did  you  let  her  kiss  you,  please?"  Icily 
it  was  said,  for  Cynthia  was  surprised  at  the  volume  of 
anger  she  was  capable  of  on  account  of  what  did  not 
concern  her,  and  she  would  not  allow  her  voice  to  tremble. 

"I  don't  very  well  see  how  I  could  help  it!"  replied 
Peter  with  fervour. 

Cynthia  smiled.  She  was  relieved  as  well  as  amused, 
immensely  relieved,  so  much  so  that  nothing  seemed  to 
matter  any  more,  and  the  path  began  to  sway  beneath 
her  and  the  sea  to  swell  before  her  eyes  to  the  level  of 
the  top  of  the  cliff.  She  stood  still. 

"I'm  only  a  little  faint,  thank  you;  it's  all  right," 
she  said,  clinging  to  his  wrist  but  holding  herself  pluckily 
upright.  "It  is  passing.  I've  had  such  an  awful  after- 
noon, you  don't  know.  .  .  .  But  it  oughtn't  to  make 
me  like  this.  ...  I'm  not  an  idiot,  Peter;  only  a  mo- 
ment and  I'll  be  able  to  go  on." 

"Dear  Cynthia!"  he  whispered.    "Dear!" 

"I  had  to  refuse  him,  oh,  so  many  times.  The  whole 
time  I  was  away  with  him  he  was  attacking  me,  trying 
to  make  me  alter.  .  .  .  And  oh,  Peter,  I'm  tired,  and  it 
seemed  horrid  if  I'd  lost  you  this  day  of  all  days.  I've 
probably  got  to  lose  Shaun  as  it  is,  and  I  do  love  my 
friends ! ' '  She  released  his  wrist  and  moved  slowly  on. 
"You  will  be  my  friend,  won't  you,  Peter?  I'm  sorry 
I  thought  you  were  flirting  with  Phyllis.  I've  been 
horrid  altogether  this  afternoon;  but  it's  difficult,  being 
a  girl,  sometimes!" 

"I'll  be  whatever  you  want,"  he  promised.  "Al- 
ways!" 

"That's  nice  of  you!"  she  rejoiced,  turning  to  him 
candid  eyes  full  of  a  troubled  sweetness.  Her  mind  was 
not  wholly  relieved  until  she  had  added,  ' '  I  don 't  know 
why  I  so  hate  to  say  this;  I'm  not  jealous  as  a  rule, 
truly  I'm  not.  But  please  be  nice  to  Phyllis,  Peter,  and 
be  her  friend,  too!" 

The  others  were  waiting  to  be  overtaken.  He  had 
time  to  answer,  "Yes,  I'll  try!" 

Then  Laurence  claimed  her. 


"MOTHER,  I  can't  discuss  it  any  more,"  said  Cynthia 
lamentably.  "I'm.  worn  out,  and,  please,  I  do  so  want 
to  forget  about  it,  and  go  to  sleep!" 

"Don't  say  another  word,  darling,"  Lady  Bremner 
assured  her.  "Only  he  was  so  certain  you  hesitated, 
and  it  would  have  been  a  marriage  Daddy  and  I  could 
quite  approve.  Are  you  sure  you  won't  change,  Rose- 
mary ?  He 's  terribly  cut  up,  poor  fellow ! ' ' 

"I  know  he  is!"  cried  Cynthia,  exasperated. 

"Hush,  dear.    Joyce  is  not  asleep  yet." 

"He  told  me  so  a  hundred  times,  and  I'm  not  likely 
ever  to  forget  it.  Mummy,  I  've  promised  to  let  him  try 
to  make  me  care,  and  I  can't  do  more,  and  I  am  fear- 
fully tired !  Really  and  truly  I  've  got  a  headache,  and 
want  to  go  to  sleep." 

Lady  Bremner  kissed  her  tenderly,  and  went  out. 
"She  has  refused  him,"  she  informed  her  husband, 
whom  she  found  in  their  bedroom,  just  come  up  after 
a  final  game  of  billiards  with  Phyllis. 

"Whom?  Polly  looks  washed  out  to-night.  Has  she 
been  receiving  a  proposal?" 

"Didn't  you  notice  Laurence  Man's  face  of  despair, 
Everard?  He  might  have  more  control  over  his  emo- 
tions, I  must  admit !  Rosemary  is  a  very  charming  girl, 
but  scarcely  old  enough  to  inspire  a  grande  passion!" 

"I'm  not  sorry,  Lina.  Nor  do  I  regret  her  refusal. 
Man  is  a  very  good  fellow  in  some  ways,  but  not  good 
enough  for  Polly.  Alan  sees  more  of  him  than  I  do 
and  does  not  care  for  him.  No,  I  was  afraid  you  meant 
some  boy-and-girl  affair  with  young  Middleton.  Re- 
member, I  did  not  see  Man;  I  was  out  when  he  came 
in." 

95 


96  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

"Peter  Middleton!  He's  far  too  nice  a  boy  to  be  so 
silly!"  smiled  Lady  Bremner.  "Of  course  you  did  not 
see  Laurence,  dear!  How  excessively  stupid  of  me! 
But  I  am  really  grieved  and  disappointed  by  what  has 
occurred  to-day." 

"And  I  am  not,  Lina.  I  shall  not  stand  in  their 
way  if  he  persuades  her  to  change  her  mind,  but  I 
sincerely  trust  it  will  not  happen.  One  can't  help 
wishing  girls  would  not  grow  up.  I'd  hate  to  part 
with  little  Polly  ..."  He  moved  to  his  dressing-room 
door.  "Still,  it'll  have  to  be  done  some  day,  I  sup- 
pose! Are  you  ready  for  Marie?  Shall  I  ring?" 


XI 

THE  next  morning  was  Alan's  last  at  Tintagel;  he  and 
Miss  Taliesin  were  leaving  by  the  mid -day  train.  Sun- 
rise was  bright  and  cold.  The  whole  sea  was  in  turmoil 
and  the  far-off  islets  disappeared  in  the  spray  of  break- 
ers. Into  the  window  of  his  room  came  a  thundering 
roar  composed  of  many  voices  howling  and  bellowing,  as 
the  great  white  horses  charged  upon  the  enemy  in  con- 
tinuous, furious  succession,  only  to  be  dashed  to  pieces 
against  the  bulwark  of  the  cliffs.  Mingled  with  it  were 
moaning  cries  and  yells  of  despair,  but  the  deep-sounding 
clamour  of  assault  rose  higher  and,  borne  by  the  wind, 
came  as  a  steady  and  unceasing  uproar. 

The  sunshine  beckoned  Alan.  He  slipped  on  coat  and 
trousers  and  a  pair  of  shoes,  and  seeing  Peter  already 
below  waiting,  hurried  down  to  join  him.  "Bossiney, 
and  let's  run  it!  Our  cove  is  hopeless  in  this  heavy 
sea."  They  ran  the  distance,  a  mile,  in  just  over  five 
minutes  and  came  in  neck  and  neck. 

Oh,  the  glory  of  the  dive  through  the  green  curl  of  a 
white-topped  wave,  and  the  strong  swimming  in  the 
foaming  surf,  and  the  rush  back  to  shore,  and  the 
stinging  glow  of  the  rub-down  with  a  hard  towel  after- 
wards! As  they  walked  home  through  the  lanes  the 
sunshine  was  delicate  upon  the  sparkling  grass,  and 
birds  saluted  it  with  a  madrigal,  and  Peter  saw  the 
world  all  rosy  from  the  east. 

Alan  talked  of  Phyllis:  how  her  people  would  do 
anything  for  her;  they  were  immensely  wealthy  and 
she  an  only  daughter.  She  could  marry  whom  she 
pleased — "unlike  Sissy,"  as  he  put  in — and  he  changed 
the  subject  to  his  journey  without  giving  an  oppor- 
tunity of  reply.  But  Peter  did  not  wish  to  com- 

97 


98  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

merit.    His  youth  was  on  wings,  and  the  flight  delirious. 

The  joy  of  greeting  Cynthia,  more  wonderful  on  each 
new  day  in  the  health  of  her  slender  loveliness,  clothed 
in  garments  that  embraced  her  with  a  white  gentle 
dignity,  and  the  thrill  from  the  warm  pressure  of  her 
hand,  and  the  grey  sweetness  of  her  kind  eyes  that  raised 
themselves  so  frankly  to  meet  his!  Then,  the  sea- 
hunger!  The  ordered  fineness  of  the  breakfast-table, 
the  unobtrusive,  watchful  service  of  experienced  maids ; 
the  light,  merry  conversation  that  danced  and  rippled 
across  the  mahogany  like  the  airy  sunbeams  that 
streamed  above  it!  The  chaff  that  did  not  hurt,  and 
the  plans  that  never  came  off;  the  adventures  of  bath- 
ing and  climbing,  of  birds  and  fishes ;  the  wild  imitations 
of  Cornish  dialect  from  Joyce  and  Phyllis,  and  the 
cleverer,  closer  ones  from  Cynthia,  and  Alan's  parody  of 
the  local  news  in  the  morning  paper;  the  quick  dis- 
cussion of  foreign  polities,  mingled  with  scattered  words 
of  dress-talk  from  the  girls ;  Miss  Taliesin  's  dry  humour ; 
Lady  Bremner's  civil,  gracious  tones,  formed  together 
an  harmonious  earth-song  for  his  soaring  spirit,  which 
swooped  downward  to  meet  a  glance,  or  a  laughing  word, 
and  mounted  again  eagerly  to  the  regions  of  ethereal 
happiness ! 

But  Cynthia  was  in  trouble,  and  to-day  Peter  soon 
came  down  to  the  dull,  drab  earth  because  of  the  ache 
which  men  call  sympathy.  He  was  not  yet  fully  experi- 
enced in  the  use  of  his  wings,  or  would  have  flown  higher, 
and  gained  the  greater  strength  thereby. 

The  morning  passed  in  wonderment  and  farewells. 
It  was  not  possible  for  him,  knowing  as  little  as  he  did, 
to  avoid  the  conclusion  that  both  the  Bremner  parents 
favoured  Laurence  as  a  suitor.  To  what  extent  their 
support  would  now  be  given,  was  the  problem  that 
exercised  his  mind.  Would  they  bully  Cynthia  ?  Would 
they  apply  steady,  quiet  pressure  by  the  statement  of 
their  hopes  and  wishes  at  every  opportunity?  He  had 
no  idea,  any  more  than  he  could  tell  why  Lady  Bremner, 
having  made  so  much  of  Miss  Taliesin  and  tried  so  hard 
to  get  to  know  her  intimately,  nevertheless,  was  openly 


THE  WINGS  OF  YOUTH  99 

relieved  when  the  wagonette  had  driven  away  from  the 
door. 

In  the  afternoon,  about  an  hour  after  lunch,  Cynthia, 
who  had  been  lying  in  the  hammock  slung  across  the 
verandah  at  the  back  of  the  house,  listening  to  every 
footfall  within  with  an  expectant  face,  as  Peter  who 
was  reading  The  Times  in  the  morning-room  could  not 
help  but  notice,  sat  suddenly  up  and  with  a  swirl  of 
white  skirts  and  brown  silk  stockings  alighted  grace- 
fully on  her  feet.  In  the  same  motion  she  darted  in- 
doors and  across  the  room,  knocking  over  a  vase  of 
roses  and  not  pausing  to  set  right  their  tumbled  glories, 
and  was  out  into  the  hall ;  and  again  with  a  thrill  Peter 
heard  a  maid  announce,  "Mr.  Shaun  James."  Some- 
thing caused  him  to  remember  oddly,  aloud,  "That  girl 

is  like  a  white  chrysanthemum "  Dressed  for  the 

evening  she  was  like  one,  too!  And  then  Shaun  en- 
tered, Cynthia  close,  cheeks  pink,  eyes  starrily  beam- 
ing on  this  dearest  of  her  friends,  and  Peter  became 
wildly  jealous.  He  was  greeted;  as  he  was  going  out, 
Lady  Bremner  came  in. 

"How  do  you  do,  Mr.  James?"  She  sailed  forward, 
extending  a  welcoming  hand.  "Oh,  here  you  are,  Rose- 
mary !  Darling !  The  vase  is  overturned,  by  your  elbow. 
Look,  child !  We  had  no  hope  of  seeing  you,  Mr.  James. 
It  is  a  great  pleasure.  Are  you  down  for  long?" 

"A  day,  perhaps,"  replied  Shaun,  bending  over  her 
hand  with  twinkling  eyes. 

Disliking  him,  or  to  be  more  correct,  finding  him  in- 
convenient as  she  did,  Lady  Bremner  always  compelled 
herself  for  that  reason  to  scrupulous  courtesy,  and  often 
her  conscience  drove  her  farther.  She  had  forgiven  him 
the  unfortunate  contretemps  of  his  arrest  before  the 
dinner-party,  and  now,  seeing  the  child  so  radiant,  asked 
him  to  accompany  them  to  the  Rocky  Valley  after  tea, 
"which  you'll  have  with  us,  won't  you?"  He  accepted. 
"I  was  bound  there,"  he  said,  gravely.  "It  is  a  coinci- 
dence. I  find  myself  called  upon  to  describe  it. ' '  Cyn- 
thia's  dimple  went  in  and  out. 

Try  as  he  might,  however,  he  could  not  succeed  in 


100  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

drawing  the  girl  away.  Lady  Bremner  held  her  ground 
and  kept  him  occupied.  Now  Sir  Everard  came  in  and 
listened  with  perfectly  distrustful  politeness  to  the  same 
excuse,  delivered  in  a  more  business-like  tone  this  time 
and  with  added  enthusiasm.  ("A  good  lie,"  Shaun  was 
accustomed  to  say,  "grows  upon  one.  Remember  that 
it  does  not  necessarily  grow  upon  one's  audience.") 

"In  a  novel?"  inquired  Sir  Everard.  "Are  we  to 
look  forward  to  it?" 

Shaun  drew  upon  another  of  his  aphorisms,  "A  good 
lie  should  never  appear  in  public  undraped.  Dress  the 
little  creature  in  gaudy  corroborations. "  "I  want  it 
for  a  friend  in  the  States, ' '  he  said  aloud, ' '  who  needs  it 
for  a  lecture  on  this  district.  He  has  the  right  to  ask  a 
good  deal  from  me."  Sir  Everard 's  expression  did  not 
alter,  but  Cynthia  knew  that  he  was  inclined  to  belief, 
and  rejoiced.  However  he  took  charge  of  Shaun  until 
tea-time. 

"Must  Laurence  come,  Mother?"  asked  Cynthia, 
aside,  at  the  first  opportunity. 

"  I  'm  afraid  he  must,  dear,  if  he  wants  to.  We  asked 
him,  you  know." 

' '  Oh,  Mother ! ' '  said  Cynthia,  turning  away. 

"You  gave  him  your  promise,"  was  the  relentless 
reminder. 

And  Laurence,  to  Lady  Bremner 's  mild  surprise, 
arrived  to  tea  as  he  had  been  bidden.  It  was  a  bold 
move,  for  the  mother  was  immediately  led  to  wonder 
whether  Rosemary  had  exaggerated  the  vehemence  of 
her  refusal.  In  any  case,  she  decided,  he  ought  to  have 
made  an  excuse  and  stayed  away  from  the  meal.  It  was 
taking  much  more  for  granted  than  was  necessary ;  and 
he  could  very  well  have  joined  them  afterwards.  How- 
ever, Laurence  had  schooled  himself  and,  although  half 
crazy  with  jealousy,  behaved  with  absolute  discretion. 
Sir  Everard,  who  was  by  this  time  determined  to  protect 
his  property  in  little  Polly  with  vigour,  frowned  when  he 
saw  him,  for  which  his  daughter  surreptitiously  stroked 
his  sleeve.  It  was  Shaun 's  high  spirits  which  took  the 
attention  of  all  during  the  uncomfortable  meal.  Sir 


THE  WINGS  OF  YOUTH  101 

Everard,  who  had  usually  found  him  entertaining,  came 
near  to  admiration  of  what  he  regarded  as  supreme 
social  tact.  And  Shaun,  whose  merriment  was  genuine, 
had  never  more  desired  his  goodwill,  which  increased  in 
value  by  being  only  partially  deserved.  The  spectacle 
of  a  diplomat,  a  professional  rival  in  the  detective 
art,  misreading  character,  was  an  amusement  to  the 
novelist. 

Sir  Everard  had  his  revenge  when  the  start  was  made, 
for  he  retained  Shaun  firmly  by  his  side,  and  the  party 
did  not  break  up  until  they  had  passed  the  old  Mill 
which  stands  at  the  head  of  the  Rocky  Valley,  sur- 
rounded in  its  charming  solitude  by  ashes,  elms,  and 
sycamores.  Then  the  two  elders  fell  behind  and  the 
young  people,  among  whom  Shaun  must  be  counted  by 
virtue  of  his  art,  proceeded  in  a  body  down  the  wind- 
ing gorge,  following  the  stream,  which  rippled  over  its 
slaty  bed  with  a  rush  and  a  murmur.  The  cliffs  on  either 
side  grew  more  precipitous.  What  had  been  merely  an 
outcrop  of  slate  shelving  from  turfy  banks  now  assumed 
the  character  of  the  walls  of  a  ravine,  with  fantastic 
ledges  and  pinnacles  to  which  the  green  vegetation  clung, 
nestling  in  crevices  and  spread  over  the  slopes  like  a 
carpet  of  rich  colour.  Ferns  grew  by  the  edge  of  the 
stream,  and  the  rocks  there  were  covered  with  velvety 
moss.  Blue  butterflies  flitted.  Up  the  valley  con- 
tinuously came  the  roar  of  the  breakers  on  the  tiny 
beach,  a  sound  which  increased  in  volume  as  bend  after 
bend  was  passed,  until  they  came  in  sight  of  the  ad- 
vancing waves  and  felt  the  weight  of  the  wind  and  smelt 
brine,  standing  with  lofty  cliffs  close  on  either  hand  so 
that  they  glanced  round  instinctively  at  the  way  they 
had  come  to  make  sure  there  was  a  means  of  escape. 
After  the  sylvan  beauties  of  the  upper  part  of  the 
Valley  the  mouth  seemed  like  a  trap  set  by  the  sentinels 
of  Nature,  and  the  angry  sea  a  devourer. 

On  the  backward  road  they  lingered,  straggling  in 
changing  groups,  but  still,  through  Laurence 's  watchful- 
ness, Shaun  did  not  succeed  in  drawing  Cynthia  apart. 
She  and  Phyllis  leaped  recklessly  from  ledge  to  ledge 


102  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

and  clambered  up  and  down  the  rugged  walls,  Cynthia 
always  leading,  the  bolder  and  the  more  agile  at  this 
mountaineer  work,  although  much  the  longer  skirted ! 
Joyce  followed  with  comparative  caution  and  in  a  moody 
silence.  Her  blade  of  grass  was  between  her  lips,  lend- 
ing her  an  air  of  jauntiness,  which  Shaun  saw  through. 
He  had  known  the  child  in  her  wide-awake  moods. 
Now  she  had  retired  into  herself,  and  not  because  she 
felt  neglected;  Cynthia's  kindness  and  frank  comrade- 
ship precluded  that.  He  joined  her  and,  carefully  look- 
ing away,  said,  "I  wish  you'd  talk  to  me  about  your 
people,  Joyce." 

She  glanced  up,  startled;  but  his  voice  had  been  so 
natural  and  unconcerned  that  she  was  not  made  shy, 
and  yet  the  sympathy  in  it  could  not  be  mistaken.  She 
lost  her  reserve  forthwith  and  gladly  chattered  to  him 
of  India.  Long  afterwards,  Cynthia  told  him  it  was 
the  nicest  thing  he  had  ever  done,  and  Shaun  said  to 
her:  "A  few  little  actions  of  that  sort,  and  some  love 
not  made,  are  all  I  've  got  to  rely  on  in  the  Day  of  Judg- 
ment, dear!"  Joyce  always  liked  him  after  this.  She 
divided  her  allegiance  between  him  and  Peter. 

Aided  by  the  departure  of  Shaun,  Laurence  drew 
Cynthia  aside  to  admire  the  waterfall. 

"I  want  to  tell  you  I'm  sorry,"  he  said,  hurriedly. 
"Forgive  me.  I'll  be  your  friend." 

Cynthia  hesitated. 

' '  I  can 't  help  loving  yon ;  but  I  will  not  bother  you. 
Let  me  be  a  friend.  Let  me  help  to  find  you  work,  if 
you  are  resolved  upon  a  career.  I  am  in  a  position  to 
advise  on  such  matters,  and  perhaps  to  influence  your 
father  and  mother." 

She  could  not  keep  surprise  from  her  voice.  ' '  Thank 
you ;  really  thank  you !  I  cannot  let  you  do  it,  though." 

"You  distrust  me!"  he  said  with  anger. 

' '  I  think  it  might  .  .  .  might  be  better  for  you  not  to 
see  me,"  said  Cynthia,  trembling. 

Laurence  began  to  insist:  "You  told  me  you  did  not 
mean  to  marry  at  present  and  I  judged  from  that  and 
from  what  you  have  let  drop  at  various  times  that  you 


THE  WINGS  OF  YOUTH  103 

want  to  enter  a  profession  or  to  go  into  business.  I 
could  be  of  assistance  to  you.  Why  not  give  me  the 
pleasure,  which  would  be  great?" 

"I  can't.    Please  don't  ask  me." 

"I  do  ask  you." 

"I  may  not  want  to  get  work  of  that' sort.  I  have 
not  made  up  my  mind. ' ' 

"It  is  probable  that  you  will,"  he  said,  coolly.  "I 
ask  it  as  a  sign  of  your  forgiveness. ' ' 

' '  One  can 't  tell  what  one  will  do,  beforehand, ' '  argued 
Cynthia,  hopeless  of  escape,  "and  I  won't  promise.  I 
don 't  see  how  I  can. ' ' 

' '  I  mean  to  prove  that  you  can  trust  me.  I  will  leave 
you  with  Mr.  James,  even  to-day,  which  is  my  last  day 
here,  if  you  desire  it.  His  arrival  seemed  unexpected" 
— Laurence  had  concealed  his  sneer,  as  he  thought, 
perfectly;  but  Cynthia  read  him  and  hardened  her 
heart — "and  he  may  have  news  of  importance.  Mean- 
while, Rosemary,  I  count  myself  your  friend.  When  I 
reach  town  I  will  get  information  regarding  women's 
professions  and  write  to  you." 

"Don't!"  she  said. 

He  looked  at  her  sadly.  "Are  you  so  bitter?"  he 
asked.  "You  promised  to  allow  more  than  that.  I'm 
only  asking  for  friendship  now." 

As  he  spoke  he  almost  believed  it.  Cynthia  was  young, 
easily  caught  by  an  appeal  to  her  generous  instincts. 
The  interview  had  proved  less  bad  than  she  feared.  She 
felt  she  owed  him  gratitude,  and  she  was  longing  to 
escape  to  Shaun.  "If  you  can  do  that  without  trouble 
to  yourself,  and  if  you  still  wish  to  when  you  get  home," 
she  began  slowly — "only  it  doesn't  bind  me  to  any- 
thing, nor  you  either, — I  should  be  grateful  for  some 
information.  We  ought  to  be  joining  the  others  now." 

He  had  obtained  his  concession.  The  need  for  self- 
restraint  was  gone  as  soon  as  her  back  was  turned ;  she 
would  have  been  startled  by  the  despair  and  anger  on 
his  face.  He  had  thanked  her  quite  simply.  He  had 
done  the  very  best  he  could  until  the  end.  Now  he 
gazed  after  her,  tortured ;  and  jealousy  of  Shaun  seized 


104  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

and  shook  him  like  a  fever,  so  that  Joyce,  who  caught 
a  glimpse  of  him  as  she  was  glancing  back,  stifled  a  cry, 
clutching  at  Shaun 's  sleeve. 

"What's  the  matter?"  said  Shaun,  stopping  amazed, 
for  her  voice  and  gesture  had  conveyed  positive  terror. 

''It's  all  right,  Mr.  James.  I  can't  see  straight,  that's 
all.  I  thought  that  Man  looked  weird.  It  must  have 
been  the  sun  making  him  screw  his  eyes  up. ' ' 

Laurence  was  impassive  when  he  overtook  them. 
Shaun  noticed  at  once  that  he  bore  the  full  sunlight 
without  blinking  and  there  the  incident  ended,  Joyce 
being  luckily  engaged  with  Cynthia.  Shaun  and 
Laurence  talked  golf,  a  game  which  neither  of  them 
played. 

Meanwhile  Phyllis,  who  had  not  disturbed  Peter  for 
twenty-four  hours  and  was  conscious  of  having  let  him 
perceive  that  she  was  shy  of  him,  proceeded  to  avenge 
herself  upon  the  male  creature  who  had  seen  her  at  a 
disadvantage.  Cynthia  had  forgiven  her;  she  need  no 
longer  be  ashamed  and  'call  herself  minx. 

"You  are  sullen,  bad  boy,"  she  smiled. 

"I'm  in  a  very  bad  temper,"  said  Peter. 

"Don't  mind  me!  Say  'in  a  devil  of  a  temper,'  if 
you  feel  that  way!  You  are  very  young,  you  know, 
Peter.  It's  absurd  of  you  to  be  jealous  of  an  elderly 
fogey  like  Shaun  James.  Rosie  would  never  marry 
anyone  so  old — he  must  be  nearly  forty.  She  only 
wants  to  pour  out  her  soul  to  him. ' ' 

"My  good  kid,"  observed  Peter,  "you  are  talking 
absolute  rot!" 

Phyllis  skipped.     "Drawn  him!"  she  cried.     "Is  it 
nice  to  be  kissed  by  a  pretty  kid,  Peter?" 
'No." 

'Not  nice?" 
'Not  at  all." 
'Then  it  is  nice!" 

'No,  not  at  all  nice,  when  you  haven't  invited  the 
kid,  Phyllis." 

She  was  too  fond  of  teasing  to  be  vexed  with  him 
when  the  play  was  only  half  done.  "Then  you  won't 


THE  WINGS  OF  YOUTH  105 

marry  me,  Peter  darling?"  He  looked  so  horrified  that 
she  fell  into  gurgles  of  delighted  and  delicious  laughter. 

"I'm  afraid  not,"  he  said,  shaking  his  head.  "You 
see  I  should  thrash  you  if  we  were  married,  and  that 
wouldn't  do,  would  it?" 

"Really  you  are  becoming  interesting,  boy!  What 
makes  you  think  I  should  let  you  beat  me?" 

But  Peter  had  relapsed  into  shyness  and  would  not 
answer,  and  soon  she  turned  away  and  walked  with 
Joyce  and  Cynthia. 

At  the  Mill,  Sir  Everard  and  Lady  Bremner  were 
waiting,  and  Cynthia  said  boldly,  ' '  Mother,  I  'm  going  to 
take  Shaun  to  St.  Nectan's  Kieve.  We'll  walk  quickly 
and  then  I  shall  be  back  in  time  to  dress."  It  was  one 
of  the  advantages  of  Shaun,  she  knew,  that  he  never 
looked  surprised  whatever  one  said  or  did,  and  now  he 
backed  her,  saying  in  a  quiet  tone,  from  his  place  by 
Laurence,  "I  should  be  sorry  to  miss  the  Kieve." 

"Have  you  seen  it?"  Lady  Bremner  asked  Laurence. 

"I  was  there  this  morning,"  replied  the  latter,  not 
truthfully. 

Peter  in  haste  started  on  with  Phyllis  and  Joyce, 
which  was  foolish  of  him,  as  it  attracted  the  attention  of 
Sir  Everard  whose  gaze  had  been  on  the  stream. 

"Goodbye,  Daddy!"  called  Cynthia,  escaping. 

They  walked  between  high  hedges  twined  about  with 
morning-glories  and  sweet-scented  honeysuckle,  and 
green  with  branching  fronds  of  tall  osmunda,  and 
pierced  with  the  spears  of  nodding  foxgloves;  and  for 
a  time  were  silent.  Cynthia  was  too  happy  in  the  rest 
and  peace  that  this  man 's  presence  gave  her,  and  Shaun 
was  afraid  to  break  the  glamour  which  held  him  en- 
chanted in  a  midsummer  land  of  youth  and  faery  joy. 
"You've  no  idea,"  he  said  at  last,  "how  much  a  writer 
longs  to  behold  with  the  outward  vision  the  beautiful, 
magical  scenes  and  people  which  he  has  to  conjure  up 
in  fancy  by  an  effort  of  the  will." 

"I  can  imagine,"  Cynthia  softly  echoed. 

"It  is  relief,"  he  went  on,  turning  to  look  at  her, 
"past  words  to  express,  to  have  romance  incarnated 


106  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

before  one  in  the  splendour  of  a  Cornish  lane  with  the 
last  sunrays  bright  on  its  eastern  hedgerow,  and  the 
beauty  of  a  willowy,  rose-and-white  girl  of  the  kingdom 
of  dreams,  who  glides  in  silver  raiment  looking  deep  into 
the  hearts  of  men  through  wise  and  dancing  eyes !  And 
is  all  woman  ...  a  child  of  earth  with  sweet  faults, 
and  dear,  tender  failings  .  .  .  Cynthia !  Have  you  good 
news  for  me?  I  read  your  wire,  and  I  trembled.  Some- 
thing said,  'She's  a  girl  who  wants  help  from  her  chum,' 
but  another  voice  cried  louder,  '  If  she 's  found  she  loves 
you,  you  are  free.'  : 

' '  I  only  said,  '  Come,  please ! '  : '  she  faltered,  over- 
whelmed by  her  own  inconsiderate  folly.  How  reckless, 
how  selfish  had  been  her  message !  What  right  had  she 
to  summon  him  only  because  she  felt  wretched  ?  Wicked 
Cynthia!  She  hated  herself  and  learnt,  if  she  had  ever 
doubted  it,  that  she  did  not  love  him.  Fool  that  she 
was !  She  remembered  the  disquiet  with  which  she  had 
read  and  re-read  his  letters.  But  he  had  sworn  friend- 
ship in  the  British  Museum !  He  was  her  friend,  Shaun 
James,  her  pal,  not 

"It  is  really  quite  safe  and  right  for  me  to  make  love 
to  you,"  said  Shaun 's  voice  beside  her,  "because  of  the 
negative  results.  Don 't  be  sorry,  dear. ' ' 

"I  am  sorry,"  she  said,  looking  at  him  through  tear- 
dimmed  eyes. 

"Don't,  Cynthia!  Girls  who  have  style,  who  wear 
their  clothes  so  well  as  you  do,  should  never  regret,  and 
straight-backed  girls  should  never  apologise.  That's  a 
rule!  And  I  shall  learn  by  experience,  like  Joyce,  who 
says  that  after  the  first  day  with  Phyllis  she  always  ate 
her  chocolates  immediately.  'That's  the  worst,'  she  told 
me  in  a  sententious  voice,  'of  intercommunicating  bed- 
rooms. I  don't  know  where  to  keep  my  chocolates.' 
I  chaffed  her.  'A  good  long  word  you've  got  there, 
Joyce.'  'You're  welcome  to  it,'  she  flashed  back,  cheeky 
as  you  please.  I'm  not  complaining.  She  cheeked 
as  a  sign  of  confidence.  Last  time  we  met  she  was 
very  polite.  It's  all  right,  Cynthia!  Truly  it's  all 
right!" 


THE  WINGS  OF  YOUTH  107 

"It's  all  wrong,  and  it's  my  fault.  I'm  the  stupidest 
beast!" 

"My  dear,  if  you  had  any  notion  how  ridiculous  are 
that  epithet  and  noun  applied  to  a  person  so  coolly 
decorative  and  yet  so  warmly  alive  as  your  brilliant  self ; 
you  would  withdraw  them." 

"Oh,  Shaun,  I  don't  feel  brilliant!" 

"Don't  you  see  how  cleverly  I'm  suggesting  that  my 
admiration  for  you  is  the  artist's  and  not  the  man's — 
while  remaining  perfectly  honest  ?  I  am  convincing  my- 
self, chum.  You  cannot  help  looking  as  though  you 
felt  brilliant,  and  that  is  the  main  point.  Looks,  looks, 
looks!  Even  your  sorrow,  your  shame,  are  brilliant. 
Your  eyes  are  large  and  deep  like  truthful  wells  and 
your  cheeks  of  the  softest  rose  and — I'm  a  fool!  The 
horse  is  a  noble  animal,  with  a  leg  at  each  corner.  Is 
this  beautiful  house  Trethevey?  And  what  is  the  little 
building  there,  with  a  cross  on  it  ?  Is  it  a  well  ? ' ' 

"It's  St.  Piran 's  Holy  Well." 

"  Quiller-Couch  wrote  about  St.  Piran." 

"I  call  here  for  a  key.  A  barn  in  the  farmyard  was 
once  a  chapel  of  St.  Piran.  Would  you  care  to  look  for 
it,  while  I  go  in?" 

' '  I  consider  the  saint  the  property  of  Q.  No,  I  '11  stay 
here  and  converse  with  the  gander.  He  and  I  are  broth- 
ers. Don't  let  either  of  us  peck  you,  Cynthia!" 

"I'm  not  afraid!"  she  said,  and  approached  the  door. 

When  she  returned,  "I'm  cunningly  arrayed  against 
my  own  cunning,"  said  Shaun.  "There  is  to  be  no 
deception.  I  freely  admit  it  is  vanity  which  causes  me 
to  say  that  had  I  the  right  I  could  make  love  in  a  very 
different,  more  real,  and  I  flatter  myself,  more  effective 
manner!  It  is  rooted  in  my  mind  that  I  could  get  you 
to  love  me !  There,  another  safeguard !  A  lover  should 
hold  that  conviction,  but  never  declare  it.  This  is  a 
lovely  walk,  and  the  grasshoppers  are  jeering  at  us.  Oh 
yes,  at  you  as  well  as  at  me,  because  they  can 't  understand 
what  are  the  crystal  things  trickling  down  your  cheeks. ' ' 

"Shaun  dear,  if  you  asked  me  very  hard,  I  believe  I 
should  marry  you,"  exclaimed  Cynthia. 


108  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

"So  do  I,"  said  Shaun.  "You  are  very  fond  of  me, 
and  very  generous  and  soft-hearted.  But  no,  listen  to 
the  blackbird.  It  is  indignant  at  the  bare  suggestion, 
whistling  '  Be  wise ! '  Wisdom  is  knowing  the  right  uses 
of  things,  and  the  conscience  of  Shaun  James  tells  him 
he  was  born  to  be  the  chum  of  a  beautiful  young  woman 
called  Cynthia  Eosemary  Bremner.  Do  I  sound  very 
maudlin,  pronouncing  the  name?  Don't  answer.  Tell 
me  of  the  evil  deeds  of  the  Byronic  individual  with  a  fish 
heart  who  has  a  genius  for  finance  and  for  worrying  my 
pal.  It  must  be  he  who  brought  me  to  this  fairy  stream, 
exquisite  in  flickering  shade,  dimpling  with  gentlest 
whispers  past  fern  and  bush  and  lichened  stone."  He 
added  mentally,  "For  young  Peter  has  not  yet  boiled 
over,  in  spite  of  his  face  of  adoration.  Where  are  the 
eyes  of  those  parents  ?  And  where  the  Dear  One 's  ? " 

"That's  it!"  said  Cynthia,  with  bent  head. 

"He  was  so  deadly  polite  to  me,"  laughed  Shaun. 
"Poor  thing,  you're  having  a  holiday  indeed !  The  fatal 
result  of  loveliness  and  charm  and  being  so  excessively 
nice  a  girl.  You're  the  perfection  of  your  type,  my 
chum.  The  result  of  all  the  beauty  and  brains  and 
pleasant  minds  and  courage  and  fine  breeding  of  hun- 
dreds of  ancestors,  all  from  the  same  fortunate  class, 
born  to  honour  as  well  as  to  honours. ' ' 

"Great-grandfather  was  a  merchant  sailor,"  put  in 
the  chum. 

"He  was  a  Bremner.  Forgive  my  stupid  talk.  Tell 
on,  and  command  my  sympathy,  dear.  I  'm  serious  now, 
the  old  Shaun  James,  purged  of  the  older  Adam." 

And  as  he  listened,  while  sunlight  shivered  into  twi- 
light and  the  gnats  danced  intricately  above  the  running 
water  and  a  robin  called  with  unearthly  sweetness,  they 
reached  a  little  door,  'leading  to  a  fairy  country,'  and 
opening  it  saw  the  pool  of  St.  Nectan  at  the  foot  of  a 
waterfall  which  sparkled  in  two  cascades  to  a  rock- 
rimmed  basin  below.  They  wandered  back,  still  deep 
in  talk,  and  went  homeward  through  dusky  lanes  by  a 
Stone  Cross,  driving  before  them  a  flock  of  straying 
sheep  which  glimmered  ghostlike  with  sudden  rushes  and 


THE  WINGS  OF  YOUTH  109 

swift  scurrying  retreats  until  in  Bossiney  village  they 
took  a  turning  and  vanished  into  memory.  "Maa-a-a," 
came  a  bleat  of  farewell  out  of  the  past  and  the  dark- 
ness ;  and  Cynthia  and  Shaun  moved  on  more  quickly. 

They  halted  at  the  Wharncliffe  door.  "It's  good-bye," 
he  said,  holding  her  hand  the  little  longer  that  says  so 
much  which  may  not  be  spoken.  "I  go  to-morrow  by 
the  earliest  train.  My  Mother  isn't  very  fit.  I  must 
visit  her.  Widows  are  lonely  people." 

"I  oughtn't  to  have  kept  you  from  her.  But  you 
have  helped  me,  Shaun,  and  I've  twice  the  courage  that 
I  had !  Thank  you,  chum  dear !  She  isn  't  really  ill,  I 
hope  ?  And  she  lives  so  far  north.  It  was  doubly  good 
of  you  to  come  to  me. ' ' 

He  answered  carelessly  enough.  "Nothing  much,  I 
expect.  She  writes  cheerfully.  She's  a  brave  old  lady, 
who  lives  for  bridge  and  reads  Smollett." 

But  inside  he  found  a  telegram  repeated  from  his 
rooms,  signed  with  a  doctor's  name,  bidding  him  come 
for  she  was  dying. 


XII 

THE  last  train  had  left  Camelford  in  the  afternoon. 
Shaun  decided  to  hire  a  car  and  motor  to  Plymouth  to 
catch  the  midnight  express.  By  half-past  nine  he  was 
leaning  back  beside  the  chauffeur,  under  a  lofty  sky  of 
towering,  fantastic  clouds,  lit  by  the  gleam  of  a  gibbous 
moon.  In  front  the  glaring  headlights  opened  an  avenue 
in  the  darkness,  up  which  mile  after  white  mile  flew  to 
meet  them;  trees  swayed  mysteriously  above  the  road 
and  were  gone;  hills  swung  in  the  dim  distance  and 
were  replaced  by  other  hills.  Overhead,  cloudlets  fleeced 
across  the  disc  of  the  moon  in  hurried  procession;  but 
the  upper  air  was  quiet,  and  the  giants  who  obscured 
the  stars  marched  in  the  pageant  of  night  with  a  grave 
and  deliberate  majesty. 

The  connection  was  made  with  minutes  to  spare,  and 
thenceforward  the  clatter  of  the  train  accompanied  his 
black  thoughts  with  a  sinister  racket  of  threats  and 
warnings.  Many  times  through  the  long  hours  of  dark- 
ness outside,  which  he  endured  curled  up,  lonely  and 
desolate,  in  the  bright  compartment,  he  sighed  for  the 
smooth  purr  of  the  motor.  Unable  to  concentrate,  he 
suffered  clear  pictures  of  old  days  to  crowd  through  his 
mind,  each  momentary,  vivid  as  flashlight  and  not  to  be 
forgotten.  She  had  been  a  stern  mother  to  his  childhood, 
a  stern  judge  of  the  untruth  of  imagination  and  the  half- 
truth  of  fear,  which  were  evil  in  her  sight  as  treachery 
and  greed.  Yet  she  had  loved  him.  He  remembered 
caresses  after  the  good-night  hymn  had  been  read,  a 
sweet  offered  shyly,  received  almost  with  dread,  and  the 
sigh  with  which  she  had  noticed  his  shrinking.  The 
child  had  not  understood,  the  man  pitied  the  tragedy  of 
temperaments.  We  artists,  he  thought,  are  a  curse  to 
ourselves  and  to  those  around  us  from  the  beginning  to 

110 


THE  WINGS  OF  YOUTH  111 

the  end.  Beauty  is  born  of  suffering,  and  it  is  not  we 
alone  who  pay.  All  who  love  us  are  part  of  the  great 
sacrifice  whereby  beauty  is  revealed  to  the  world  as  was 
Love  upon  the  Cross.  Mother  would  call  the  comparison 
blasphemous.  Ah,  but  it  isn't!  We  are  unwilling  vic- 
tims, Christ  gave  Himself.  There  is  the  difference. 

Morning  dawned  grey  beneath  a  nimbus  and  the  rain 
was  thick  as  mist.  Shaun  was  travelling  on  another  line, 
speeding  north,  asleep.  He  dreamt  of  her  face  bending 
above  him,  vast  and  madonna-like,  and  he  was  a  very 
little  babe,  for  her  shoulders  seemed  the  width  of  his  cot. 
He  longed  to  call  out,  ' '  Mother,  I  loved  you  after  all.  I 
love  you  still, ' '  but  his  tongue  clove  to  his  lips,  and  there 
was  a  roaring  and  a  rushing  as  of  many  waters  and  she 
was  swept  up  and  away,  leaving  him  stretching  out  weak 
arms  and  crying  bitterly.  He  awoke  to  the  rumble  of 
the  train,  tears  streaming  down  his  cheeks.  The  fat 
commercial  opposite  had  hidden  himself  behind  the 
Chronicle  of  the  day  before,  and  emerged  flushed  and 
uneasily  compassionate. 

They  ran  smoothly  into  the  curve  of  York  Station 
about  one  o'clock,  and  Shaun  drove  with  a  heart  full  of 
dread  to  his  mother's  home  near  the  Cathedral.  The 
blinds  were  up  and  his  terror  abated.  He  was  a  man 
easily  overwhelmed,  with  the  facile,  uncontrollable  imag- 
ination of  the  writer,  but  he  was  called  upon  now  to 
play  the  stoic,  to  match  the  courage  of  an  indomitable 
old  woman  and  if  he  could  not  live  to  please  her  at  least 
to  be  what  she  would  have  him  on  the  last  occasion  when 
they  would  see  each  other  as  in  a  glass  darkly,  and  not 
with  the  eyes  of  the  soul.  He  strung  himself  to  the  pitch 
of  her  strong  character ;  and  tapped  with  the  old  brass 
knocker.  The  familiar  sound  echoed  in  the  narrow  dark 
street  of  lofty  houses  and  was  drowned  in  the  rattle  and 
throb  of  the  departing  taxi.  Both  noises  seemed  por- 
tentously loud  and,  although  Shaun  knew  her  bedroom 
to  be  on  the  second  story,  at  the  back,  across  a  corridor 
and  protected  by  the  thick  walls  of  an  honest  builder,  he 
regretted  what  he  had  done.  The  new  anxiety  helped 
the  moment  of  waiting  to  pass,  but  suspense  was  agonis- 


112  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

ing  before  the  door  slowly  opened,  and  in  the  aperture 
was  thrust  the  withered  face  of  Martha  who  had  been 
his  mother's  nursemaid  sixty  years  ago. 

"Am  I  in  time?" 

"Ay,  she's  been  worriting  for  ye,  Master  Shaun." 

There  were  thirty  stairs  to  climb  behind  shuffling 
Martha.  A  doctor  encountered  him  at  the  top  and 
bade  him  wait. 

A  sense  of  peace  came  with  her  near  presence.  He 
knew  how  much  he  had  longed  just  for  that,  clinging 
passionately  to  the  ease  of  the  moment,  as  we  must  so 
often  in  this  life.  "Was  it  the  influence  of  his  dream,  or 
did  he  still  love  her  indestructibly  with  the  love  of  child- 
hood ?  Shaun  wondered  with  the  cold  detachment  which 
is  one  of  the  phases  of  hysterical  emotion.  But  he  had 
inherited  strength  from  her  and  from  his  father  the 
country  surgeon,  the  farmer's  son  who  had  overthrown 
countless  objects  to  win  culture  and  a  profession  and 
a  Miss  Bannister  of  York.  He  had  self-control.  "When 
he  had  quarrelled  with  his  mother  there  had  been  no 
loud  words,  in  spite  of  which  the  breach  had  been  in- 
evitable and  final.  She  had  spoken  of  his  godlessness 
and  condemned  his  books  with  a  caustic  humour.  They 
did  not  fit  in  with  her  particular  creed  and  were  there- 
fore evil,  but  happily  immature.  He  would  grow  out  of 
such  wicked  nonsense ;  in  the  meantime  it  was  wrong 
to  infect  Doris,  poor  child.  Her  duty  was  to  make  that 
very  clear.  She  blamed  him  because  Doris  was  High 
Church  and  called  herself  a  Catholic,  blamed  Shaun, 
the  lover  of  all  honest  creeds,  the  dilettante  Platonist, 
but,  as  his  heart,  humble  in  the  presence  of  death,  told 
him,  a  philosopher  true  to  his  real  self.  Looking  back 
he  could  not  regret. 

"I  believe  the  Truth  is  that  God  is  Love.  There's  my 
faith." 

1 '  That  is  not  enough. ' ' 

"We  perceive  God  through  Beauty,  realise  God 
through  Truth,  know  God  through  Love." 

"\  will  hear  no  more,  Shaun." 

She  had  heard  no  more,  and  since  then  she  had  been 


THE  WINGS  OF  YOUTH  113 

good-humouredly  eager  to  have  him  away  from  her. 
Her  affection  for  the  broad  eighteenth-century  writers, 
her  passion  for  whist  and  of  late  years  bridge,  her  fierce 
wit,  her  white  hair  piled  high  under  a  jet  comb,  her  lace 
caps,  one  for  each  day  in  the  week,  her  tyranny  over 
Martha,  her  suppers  to  the  Minister  at  which  the  good 
man's  sermons  underwent  a  rude  handling  while  he  was 
courteously  entreated  and  fed  with  every  North-Country 
delicacy,  were  known  to  the  old  ladies  of  York  and  ap- 
proved by  them.  Shaun  and  his  wife  were  not.  Their 
appearance  in  the  city  became  infrequent,  and  after 
the  death  of  the  younger  Mrs.  James  -Shaun  paid  only 
visits  of  duty,  which  he  believed  to  be  enjoyed  by  his 
mother  as  little  as  by  himself. 

The  doctor  had  spoken  in  a  calm  manner  which  had 
helped  to  reassure  him,  but  the  delay  was  long  and  the 
son  again  grew  agonised.  What  was  going  on  behind 
that  great  oak  door  which  he  had  not  entered  since 
childhood?  As  though  in  answer  to  his  thought  it 
slowly  opened.  The  doctor  stood  on  the  threshold, 
beckoning.  Shaun  approached. 

In  the  long,  low  room  with  its  damask  curtains  half 
drawn  across  the  lofty  and  narrow  windows  the  sunshine 
was  mellowed  to  a  frail  glow.  It  made  a  pool  upon  the 
polished  floor,  before  the  vast  mahogany  bed  from  whose 
shadow  came  a  babbling  voice  that  ran  on  continuously. 
A  nurse  sat  silent.  A  small  fire  burnt  in  the  grate  and 
on  the  hob  a  kettle  sang.  A  drawer  of  the  ambry  which 
stretched  from  floor  to  ceiling  was  open.  Towels  were 
visible  in  it.  The  nurse  rose  to  her  feet,  a  tall,  stout 
woman.  She  emerged,  passed  lightly  from  the  room. 
Shaun  received  an  impression  of  plainness,  capability, 
middle  age.  A  smell  of  soap  hung  in  the  air.  It  was  a 
disinfectant  soap.  The  nurse's  moon  face  had  shone 
with  rubbing.  She  was  gone.  She  .  .  . 

"Steady!"  said  the  doctor  under  his  breath,  clutch- 
ing Shaun 's  wrist. 

The  voice  from  the  bed  was  repeating  the  forty-seventh 
psalm.  Shaun  had  never  heard  that  voice  before.  It 
was  shockingly  unfamiliar  in  delirium.  But  he  knew 


114  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

that  his  mother  lay  there.  His  brain  grew  clear,  his 
colour  came  back,  and  the  doctor  released  him. 

"How  long?"  whispered  Shaun. 

"Not  long.     See  if  she  recognises  you." 

At  this  moment  there  was  a  sudden  hush  in  the  room. 
The  singing  of  the  kettle  became  dominant.  It  filled 
the  air,  a  sustained  gentle  sibilance.  .  .  .  His  mother 
spoke.  "Shaun!" 

He  moved  into  the  shadow  of  the  bed,  and  it  seemed 
a  bright  light  in  which  he  saw  her  more  distinctly  than 
ever  before.  She  was  little  and  wasted  and  dauntless: 
that  she  had  always  been.  Her  white  hair  was  smooth,  her 
eyes  dimmer,  but  to  Shaun  she  was  all  love.  He  yearned 
to  her  as  in  his  dream.  She  was  his  Mother,  found. 

"You  did  want  me?"  he  pleaded. 

"Always,"  said  she,  faintly,  but  with  the  old  grim 
humour.  ' '  I  used  to  wonder  how  a  clever  man  like  you 
failed  to  perceive  it.  Give  me  my  handkerchief,  child." 

She  had  no  strength  to  hold  it.    He  helped  her. 

"The  roles  reversed!"  she  commented,  with  closed 
eyes.  And  then  with  sorrow  and  some  asperity,  too — 
human  to  the  end — she  spoke  to  him  of  religion,  and 
bade  him  not  promise  her  what  he  did  not  mean  to 
perform.  "Listen  and  don't  interrupt,"  she  said.  Her 
voice  faded  and  rose  again.  The  doctor  was  standing 
at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  watchful.  .  .  .  And  now  delirium 
seked  her.  ' '  The  Lamb ! ' '  she  cried,  powerfully.  Then, 
"I  dreamt  last  night  that  I  was  dead!  It  was  a  great 
disappointment  to  awake.  I  saw  the  golden  shore,  and 
the  silver  walls.  I  did  not  see  the  Face,  but  the  White 
Hand  was  stretched  out  to  me!"  The  light  flickered 
in  her  old  eyes,  sprang  up  and  died  away.  "Shaun!" 
she  murmured  once.  .  .  .  The  singing  of  the  kettle  be- 
came audible  in  the  room.  .  .  .  The  doctor  moved.  He 
came  forward  and  touched  Shaun 's  arm. 

For  the  second  time  in  his  life  Shaun  knelt  by  a  bed- 
side and  prayed  with  sobs.  And  as  he  did  so  her 
strength  entered  into  him,  and  he  made  a  resolution.  He 
would  conquer  himself  and  leave  Cynthia  free. 


XIII 

THE  last  day  of  Peter's  holiday  approached  with  sudden 
swiftness.  It  came  out  of  hiding  like  a  beast  of  prey 
and  advanced  threateningly.  People  changed  under  its 
influence,  or  seemed  to  change.  Perhaps  it  was  only 
the  departure  of  Alan  and  Miss  Taliesin,  Shaun  and 
Laurence,  causing  Peter  to  be  more  conspicuous  in  the 
family  party,  that  recalled  Sir  Everard  to  his  duties  of 
host  and  prevented  Peter  from  being  so  much  alone  with 
Cynthia.  Sir  Everard  was  friendly  in  his  dry  fashion, 
which  accepted  Peter  as  a  relative  or  a  privileged  per- 
son, but  he  sent  Cynthia  to  bathe  with  the  other  girls  at 
Trebarwith  and  took  his  guest  sea-fishing.  Phyllis  was 
different,  too.  She  flirted  as  outrageously  as  ever  with- 
out having  the  air  of  expecting  a  response.  And  when 
she  did  expect  it  she  ran  away.  At  other  times  she 
treated  Peter  with  a  good  deal  of  respect,  and  always 
kept  a  watch  upon  him  of  which  he  could  not  remain 
unconscious.  He  had  no  idea  that  she  was  beginning 
to  be  sorry  for  him. 

Joyce  was  very  .sweet  and  kind  to  him,  and  in  some 
ways  appeared  the  oldest  of  them  all  in  those  last  days. 
She  still  came  to  Peter  to  have  shoe-laces  tied  or  hair- 
ribbon  arranged,  but  the  mark  of  childish  confidence 
and  affection  was  now  felt  by  him  as  a  definite  encour- 
agement. ' '  Cheer  up, ' '  it  said.  ' '  I  know  she  likes  you. ' ' 
Joyce  had  been  distressed  by  Cynthia's  praises  of  'That 
One,'  the  meaning  of  which  she  had  perfectly  under- 
stood, and  for  days  after  she  bombarded  Peter  with 
accounts  of  Cynthia's  feats  of  riding  and  swimming, 
and  tales  of  her  athletic  prowess  at  school.  She  was 
careful  to  explain  that  Cyn  had  not  been  allowed  to 
go  in  for  exams.,  but  that  she  was  frightfully  clever  and 
— Sir  Everard  being  cited  as  authority — 'top-hole  at 
Maths.!'  Peter  was  much  impressed  by  the  latter  in- 

115 


116  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

formation,  while  remaining  slightly  sceptical  as  regards 
the  huge  scores  at  cricket  and  dare-devil  high  dives 
which  Joyce  recounted  with  too  many  superlatives  for 
absolute  credit. 

The  last  day  hut  one  arrived.  In  the  morning  they 
flew  about  Cronwall  in  a  motor-car.  Peter  saw  nothing 
but  Cynthia's  pretty  neck  and  head  until  she  changed 
seats  with  him.  In  the  afternoon  the  three  girls  bathed, 
and  Lady  Bremner,  lying  in  the  hammock,  talked  to 
Peter  of  what  Laurence  Man  could  do  for  him  in  the 
Great  Company.  It  was  like  taking  a  nightmare  seri- 
ously. He  listened  to  the  buzz  of  insects,  and  the  re- 
fined, unreal  voice  telling  him  how  to  alter  the  bad  dream 
that  had  not  begun  yet,  so  why,  oh  why,  should  he  think 
of  it  ?  He  wanted  Cynthia.  Being  a  polite  boy  he  could 
only  stay  and  suffer. 

At  length  he  escaped,  and  hurried  to  meet  the  girls. 
He  took  them  by  surprise  and  found  three  tomboys 
comparing  their  biceps.  Three!  And  Cynthia's  soft 
hair  was  afloat  like  Phyllis 's  and  Joyce's.  All  the  girls 
turned  rosy  and  Cynthia  became  noticeably  sedate.  Yes, 
as  dinner  was  to  be  put  off  until  nine  for  that  friend  of 
Daddy 's  who  was  coming,  she  would  like  to  see  the  sunset 
from  the  island.  Phyllis  did  not  even  offer  to  go.  With 
pinned-up  skirts  she  was  playing  leapfrog  with  Joyce, 
Marie  having  been  sent  on  ahead.  Peter  had  had  no 
idea  that  girls  were  ever  childish.  It  was  a  valuable 
reminder  of  their  humanity,  their  winglessness.  He  al- 
most managed  to  see  Cynthia  without  wings,  not  as  the 
starry  lady  of  the  secret  name,  but  as  his  comrade,  a 
wholesome,  natural  young  girl,  plagued  with  lovers  and 
longing  for  freedom.  They  talked  of  books,  exchanged 
enthusiasms  over  Meredith  and  Leonard  Merrick  and 
Kenneth  Grahame.  Before  reaching  Tintagel  Cynthia 
produced  a  comb,  and  crowned  her  sweet  head  with  a 
coronal  of  shining  hair.  No  one  would  have  thought 
she  had  been  playing  leapfrog,  too! 

They  stood  on  the  cliff,  above  a  tossing  sea,  England 
behind  them,  in  front  a  glorious  sky  of  apple  green 


THE  WINGS  OF  YOUTH  117 

merging  into  the  faintest  blue.  On  the  horizon  the 
golden  sun  was  dipping  towards  his  pathway  across  the 
sparkling  waves.  Flame-coloured  and  orange-rosy 
streamers  flew  from  the  ball  of  fire  whose  background 
was  clear  light.  In  the  zenith  strange  shaped  warrior 
clouds,  like  figures  in  a  Japanese  print,  fought  in  shaded 
armour.  A  few  stars  glimmered  in  the  duskier  sky  as 
the  swift  brightness  faded,  and  the  sun's  rim  sank  over 
the  edge  of  the  world  and  his  surface  changed  to  crim- 
son, with  the  waves  leaping  against  it  in  a  jagged  line. 
A  wind  stirred  the  watcher's  hair. 

"My  last!"  said  Peter. 

"I'm  sorry,"  she  murmured,  her  eyes  on  the  west. 
"Isn't  it  perfect?  Phyl  would  be  right  if  she  called 
this  'heavenly.'  We  ought  to  be  going  back,  Peter. 
Oh,  I'm  sorry  that  you  won't  be  here  to-morrow!" 

"Are  you?"  he  asked,  as  they  turned  reluctantly 
away. 

"Of  course  I  am,"  she  said,  surprised.  "You  musn't 
doubt  that,  please.  I  shall  miss  you  fearfully." 

He  would  rather  she  had  not  been  willing  to  confess 
it.  He  was  not  altogether  conscious  what  had  prompted 
his  question,  why  he  so  longed  to  cover  the  girl's  hands 
with  kisses  and  tears.  Something  rose  in  his  throat, 
making  thought  difficult.  He  did  not  understand  the 
strength  of  the  passionate  emotion  which  was  striving  to 
express  itself.  She  was  the  sunset  holiday,  all  joy,  all 
beauty,  so  much  he  knew,  and  to  leave  her  would  be 
bitter  as  death ;  but  he  did  not  realise  that  the  worship 
of  Star  had  changed  into  the  love  of  Cynthia.  He  still 
called  her  'Star'  in  his  secret  mind.  She  was  still 
Romance,  and  had  he  been  frank  with  himself  he  might 
have  declared  that  his  feeling  for  Cynthia  was  one  of 
friendship  and  that  Star,  his  beloved,  was  a  different 
person.  He  would  have  been  right,  but  it  was  Cynthia 
whom  he  loved  now. 

"Let's  climb  up  to  the  Keep,  and  look  at  the  after- 
glow, ' '  proposed  the  girl. 

They  scrambled  up  the  steep  path  at  the  landward  end 
of  the  narrow  isthmus,  and  gave  the  key  of  the  Island 


118  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

to  a  visitor  they  met  upon  their  way,  saving  thus  ten 
precious  minutes.  Cynthia  was  in  front  as  they  climbed 
the  stone  steps  to  the  level  patch  of  greensward  sur- 
rounded by  ruined  walls.  She  moved  ahead  of  Peter 
to  an  embrasure  which  from  a  precipice-edge  overlooked 
the  sea.  Her  walk  was  like  a  melody  played  sweetly  in 
tune.  Yes,  she  was  a  song,  and  a  lily,  and  a  girl  to  make 
a  man's  pulses  quicken!  But  Peter  was  not  conscious 
how  his  own  were  stirred.  A  blustering  wind  was  blow- 
ing in  gusts.  Her  muslin  sleeves  flew  and  fluttered,  out- 
lining her  arms.  She  leant  her  elbows  on  the  ledge  and 
drew  a  long  breath  of  delight;  for  now  the  sky  was  a 
blaze  of  crimson,  rose,  and  gold,  and  the  warriors  fought 
on  in  resplendent  armour,  brandishing  their  swords 
among  the  stars.  The  sea  rushed  and  tossed  at  the  foot 
of  the  precipice,  gulls  were  crying  desolately  overhead, 
jackdaws  chattered  about  the  cliffs.  Peter  came  close 
to  her.  As  he  stood  by  her  side  their  arms  were  touch- 
ing. He  felt  the  warmth  of  hers  through  the  thin  fab- 
ric. It  seemed  to  diffuse  through  his  whole  body  a  glow- 
ing flood  that  mounted  swiftly  to  his  brain.  He  looked 
down  at  her  clustering  hair,  her  exquisite,  clear  profile, 
at  the  long  white  fingers  propping  her  chin. 

A  struggle  was  going  on  in  his  mind.  Interminable 
moments  passed. 

Meanwhile  her  thoughts  flew  back  from  the  crimson 
tinted  warriors  of  the  sky  to  a  frivolous  thing,  the  gown 
she  was  to  wear  at  dinner.  The  ethereal  look  was  still 
upon  her  face,  her  delicate  chin  still  uplifted,  under  the 
long  lashes  her  eyes  were  heavenly  bright,  unconscious  of 
him.  It  was  a  wonderful  frock,  a  Paris  model,  no  longer 
new;  of  which  she  had  once  been  afraid  because  it  left 
uncovered  the  lovely  lines  of  her  shoulders,  the  short 
sleeves  falling  upon  the  arms  from  the  level  of  the  decol- 
letage.  The  colour  was  ivory  white,  the  style  very  sim- 
ple, very  becoming.  Mummy  had  fallen  a  victim  to  it  be- 
cause her  child,  wheedled  by  the  arts  of  a  clever  sales- 
woman into  trying  it  on,  had  looked  'so  cool  and  de- 
licious. '  And  it  was  not  too  low  cut ;  in  every  way  it  was 
fascinatingly  right,  and  dainty,  and  distinguished.  That 


THE  WINGS  OP  YOUTH  119 

was  the  word  the  saleswoman  had  used,  transferring  it 
to  Cynthia,  whose  cheeks  as  she  remembered  flushed  a 
richer  rose,  whose  eyes  sparkled  with  a  happy  light. 
"Mees  Peto  has  chic,  beaucoup  de  chic,  mais  mademoiselle 
est  bien  distinguee ! ' '  Cynthia  was  well  aware  that  she 
deserved  Shaun's  compliment,  that  she  had  'style'  and 
wore  her  clothes  as  they  should  be  worn.  Phyllis  had  not 
this  instinctive  grace  of  bearing  and  fitness  of  taste  and 
deft  art  in  the  adjustment  of  detail.  And  Phyl  was 
always  outree,  in  the  extreme  of  the  fashion,  from  which 
Lady  Bremner  kept  Cynthia  carefully  apart.  "A  girl 
who  can  look  as  nice  as  you,  darling,  should  never  dress 
as  though  she  followed  the  fashions,  but  as  if  she  availed 
herself  of  them."  It  was  the  wisest  counsel. 

Suddenly  hot  lips  brushed  Cynthia's  cheek,  and  she 
started  violently  awake.  Peter  at  the  moment  of  self- 
conquest,  in  the  very  act  of  drawing  back,  had  noticed 
the  beautiful  turn  of  the  girl's  head  and  neck.  "Without 
the  slightest  premeditation  or  knowledge  of  what  he  was 
doing  he  kissed  her, — and  was  not  amazed  at  the  fire  of 
her  wrath.  She  sprang  upright  and  faced  him. 

"Oh,  Peter,  why  did  you  do  it?"  she  cried,  blushing 
scarlet. 

He  answered  doggedly,  "I  love  you." 

"I  trusted  you,"  she  said  with  anger.  "Haven't  I 
a  single  friend?  I  thought  we  were  to  be  friends, 
Peter.  I  don't  want  lovers.  Oh,  it's  hateful  to  be  so 
lonely!" 

"I'm.  sorry,"  he  said,  very  white.  "I  did  not  mean 
to  tell  you  or  to  do  that.  I  don 't  want  to  give  you  pain, 
Cynthia.  There's  nothing  I  want  less.  I'd  make  you 
happy  if  I  could,  but  I  don't  see  quite  what  I  can  do  to 
help  you  in  this.  I've  told  the  truth,  and  I  don't  feel  a 
bit  as  if  I  should  change.  It's  no  good  saying  that  I 
do." 

"We'd  better  be  moving  on,"  said  she,  in  a  quieter 
voice  but  not  kindly.  "It's  frightfully  late.  I  mustn't 
keep  them  waiting." 

They  walked  slowly,  Cynthia  behind,  along  the  top  of 
the  down  above  the  combe.  After  the  first  shock  of 


120  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

surprise  was  past  her  anger  swiftly  and  unaccountably 
faded  away.  Instead  she  felt  tremulous.  A  sense  of 
disappointment  grew  in  her  somewhat  like  that  of  a 
dreamer  who  has  missed  the  happy  climax  of  a  dream 
through  waking  forgetful. 

"Peter!"  she  said,  noticing  the  straightness  of  his 
back  and  the  stiffness  of  his  broad  shoulders.  Laurence 
would  have  been  writhing,  Shaun  bowed.  Her  heart 
went  out  a  little  way  to  him  because  he  had  taken  rebuke 
like  a  soldier.  But  he  had  had  no  right  to  kiss  her.  She 
wasn  't  that  kind  of  girl.  As  if  Peter  did  not  know  it ! 
He  couldn't  have  been  responsible,  somehow,  for  what 
he  did.  Peter  was  not  that  kind  of  man. 

He  waited  for  her  without  eagerness,  at  which  she 
felt  vaguely  puzzled.  She  had  a  cruel  impulse  which 
amazed  her.  Overcoming  it,  she  said :  ' '  Forgive  me  for 
my  rudeness.  I  ought  to  have  believed  at  once  what 
you  told  me." 

She  was  a  tall  girl,  but  he  towered  above  her.  Cynthia 
breathed  faster.  An  excitement  thrilled  her,  as  in  the 
instant  before  diving  from  a  height.  Space  opened,  the 
passage  of  time  was  suspended.  Her  spirit  hovered  on 
the  brink  of  some  bold  plunge,  uncontemplated  by  the 
self  she  knew.  She  added  with  a  breathless  little  laugh, 
"You  are  big,  Peter.  You  dwarf  me!" 

He  stepped  a  pace  backward,  and  accompanied  her  as 
she  walked  on.  "I  don't  regret  what  I  did,"  he  said. 
"I  can't!  But  I  promise  not  to  do  it  again.  You 
weren't  rude.  Cynthia  could  not  be  rude.  I've  been 
thinking  things  out  in  the  last  few  minutes,  and  I  know 
just  why  I  love  you  as  I  do.  I  won't  bother  you! 
Heaps  of  men  must  have  said  the  same  things.  I  don't 
expect  I  could  be  original  about  your  charm  and  your 
dearness.  You  don't  mind  my  saying  this?" 

"No,"  said  Cynthia,  softly.  "And  the  last  man  did 
not  speak  that  way  at  all.  He  was  like  a  starchy  thing 
dipped  into  hot  water!  I  don't  believe  you'll  ever 
bother  me,  Peter." 

"I  wish  I  could!"  he  sighed,  looking  down  at  her 
bright  head.  She  flushed,  and  for  an  instant  was  shaken 


THE  WINGS  OF  YOUTH  121 

like  a  leaf.  "I  wouldn't  be  a  girl!"  he  said,  calmly. 
' '  Your  friends  plague  you. ' ' 

Now  they  descended  the  side  of  the  combe  to  reach 
the  stepping-stones  across  the  stream.  The  incline  was 
abrupt.  They  dug  their  heels  into  the  green  turf  and 
advanced  with  precaution.  Unfortunately  for  him  she 
was  active  and  did  not  need  his  help.  Down  below  in 
the  valley  the  twilight  was  changing  into  dusk,  but  the 
birds  sang  plaintively  from  dim  bushes,  wagtails  dipped 
over  the  surface  of  the  rippling  water,  a  goldfinch 
flashed  from  mossy  bank  to  mossy  bank.  By  the  edge 
were  yellow  marigolds  in  the  grass.  The  forget-me-nots' 
blue  eyes  were  half  closed  with  sleep. 

They  walked,  silent,  up  the  long,  quiet  village  street, 
like  themselves  deep  in  thought  of  eternal  matters.  The 
ancient  house  knelt  brooding,  its  gables  pointed  skyward 
with  the  look  of  praying  hands,  as  if  some  old  knight 
crouching  by  the  wayside.  Lights  began  to  appear  in 
the  cottages.  The  Wharncliffe  blazed.  At  the  gate 
Cynthia  held  out  her  hand.  By  the  motion  she  swept 
away  Peter's  stoicism  and  he  was  conscious  of  a  flood  of 
bitter  pain  and  sorrowful  longing  that  invaded  irresist- 
ibly his  whole  being.  He  pressed  her  hand,  and  dropped 
it  and  rushed  up  the  stone  path,  choking  back  his  sobs, 
seeing  a  picture  which  he  never  forgot  of  a  bright  in- 
terior and  the  shining  mahogany  dinner-table  arranged 
with  vases  of  white  flowers,  above  which  a  white-capped 
housemaid  was  bending.  The  vision  wavered  into  tears. 

Cynthia  entered  the  garden  slowly,  reluctant  to  face 
the  lighted  hall;  and  as  she  lingered  Phyllis  appeared 
round  the  corner  of  the  house.  Immediately  a  window 
was  thrown  open  above  the  porch  and  Joyce,  who  had 
been  watching  from  her  bedroom  in  the  dark,  leaned  out 
and  cried  triumphantly  to  Phyllis, ' '  Your  father 's  only  a 
Banker.  Mine's  a  Major,  isn't  he,  Cyn?"  Cynthia 
went  in  and  upstairs  without  reply,  and  while  mounting 
to  her  own  room  she  heard  That  One  hammer  a  reckless 
tattoo  on  Joyce's  door.  At  all  events  those  two  had  not 
encountered  Peter  nor  had  they  seen  her  close.  As  she 
bathed  and  changed  it  was  her  one  comfort.  Was  there 


122  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

ever  a  girl  who  caused  as  much  unhappiness  as  she? 
Except  Helen  of  Troy,  and  Cynthia  smiled  at  the  idea 
of  comparing  herself  with  Helen.  Worse,  she  giggled 
hysterically,  a  thing  that  she  had  not  done  since  she 
was  a  schoolgirl. 

She  was  down  early,  after  all.  What  a  comfort  it  was 
to  be  allowed  to  arrange  one's  own  hair  and  do  things 
at  one's  own  time !  She  wished  this  holiday  might  never 
end.  Here  came  Peter.  They  were  the  two  earliest 
again,  as  they  had  been  at  Portman  Square  on  their  first 
meeting.  How  nice  he  looked  in  his  evening  clothes, 
and  he  was  not  pale  now.  Perhaps  he  would  get  over 
his  feeling  quite  easily! 

She  had  not  time,  quick  as  her  impressions  were,  to 
consider  the  shock  of  disappointment  which  this  thought 
gave  her,  before  he  was  standing  by  the  side  of  her  chair. 

"You  must  come  out  into  the  garden  after  dinner!" 
he  said,  commandingly,  in  a  voice  which  was  new  to  her. 
' '  Come  when  you  can.  I  '11  be  watching  for  you,  Cynthia. 
I  must  speak  to  you  again  before  I  go." 

The  entrance  of  Lady  Bremner  prevented  a  reply,  but 
Cynthia  never  dreamed  of  refusing.  She  could  trust  poor 
Peter  not  to  hurt  her  as  Laurence  had  done,  and  it  was 
so  very  peaceful  and  nice  to  be  ordered  about  by  him! 
It  brought  her  something  oddly  like  happiness.  As  the 
meal  dragged  to  a  close,  Cynthia  wondered  why.  She 
was  usually  irritated  by  any  attempt  to  control  her 
actions,  and  had  had  several  angry  little  disputes  with 
Shaun  because  he,  persistently  in  certain  moods,  in- 
structed her  as  to  what  she  was  to  do  or  not  to  do.  Dis- 
putes over  trivial  matters.  She  was  trying  to  analyse 
the  difference  between  Peter  and  Shaun,  when  Lady 
Bremner  gave  the  signal  to  rise. 

In  the  midst  of  an  indictment  of  the  Home  Rule  Bill 
by  the  guest  of  the  evening  Peter  heard  her  singing  in 
the  drawing-room.  He  excused  himself  as  soon  as  he 
could  and  went  upstairs.  She  sang  Der  Nussbaum,  not 
perfectly  but  with  a  sweet,  round  voice.  Lady  Bremner 
played  the  difficult  accompaniment  with  unexpected 
skill,  She  would  not  stay  at  the  piano  when  Cynthia 


THE  WINGS  OF  YOUTH  123 

had  finished,  so  the  latter  chose  a  volume  of  Beethoven 
and  played  the  Waldstein.  She  was  uplifted,  and  did 
well.  Lady  Bremner  then  asked  for  the  Pastoral,  while 
Phyllis  demanded  the  Appassionata.  The  arrival  of  the 
two  men  prevented  the  playing  of  either,  for  'Daddy's 
friend '  wanted  ' '  that  pretty  thing, ' '  which  proved  to  be 
In  the  Shadows. 

The  music  had  clarified  Peter's  mind  and  confirmed  his 
intention.  The  evening  seemed  endless,  yet  he  went 
through  its  varied  incidents  patiently,  arid  at  last  found 
himself  in  the  cool  verandah,  listening  to  the  stridulation 
of  the  grasshoppers  and  starting  with  beating  heart 
whenever  he  thought  he  heard  a  footstep  within.  He 
had  faced  himself ;  and  the  call  of  his  blood  to  obstinate 
battle  against  odds  had  sounded  within  him;  he  told 
himself,  unafraid,  that  he  meant  to  marry  Cynthia  Brem- 
ner. The  thought  had  not  occurred  to  him  as  the 
wildest  possibility  when  he  entered  his  bedroom  a  few 
hours  ago.  Now  he  said  humbly  that  he  intended  to 
have  a  try.  If  he  found  he  was  hurting  her  he  would 
not  go  on,  that  was  definite.  What  he  would  do,  if  he 
made  progress,  was  vague  in  his  mind,  remote,  and  could 
be  decided  when  the  occasion  came.  He  was  strung  to 
an  entire  concentration.  His  past  was  a  dream.  He 
stood  awakened.  He  was  a  man. 

She  came  to  him;  like  a  tall  lily,  in  the  dusk  of  the 
verandah.  Her  head  was  hooded  in  a  filmy  scarf  of  the 
colour  of  the  moonlight  flooding  the  garden.  It  was 
swathed  around  her  shoulders,  and  the  ends  twisted 
about  her  forearms,  and  as  she  stepped  forth  into  the 
world  of  glamour  he  caught  sight  of  her  smooth,  white 
elbows  peeping.  He  followed  without  a  word,  and  she 
led  him  down  rose-trellised  paths,  through  the  door  into 
the  field. 

The  low  stone  hedges  made  lines  of  shadow  upon  the 
argent  plain,  and  the  uplands  swept  gloriously  to  a  sky 
of  countless  stars  among  which  hung  the  great,  solemn 
moon  in  full  circle.  The  air  was  mild  and  smelt  sweet  of 
hay.  Far  distant,  the  sea  whispered  a  lullaby  to  the 
night;  bats  flitted,  and  their  thin  cries  were  like  moon- 


124  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

shine  made  audible,  voicing  the  magic  of  the  pale  radi- 
ance that  streamed  on  the  wold.  Dewdrops  glistened 
underfoot. 

And  now  she  stopped,  while  still  hidden  from  the 
windows  of  the  house  by  the  fence;  and  the  feathery 
edge  of  the  veil  discarded  by  her  lay  on  the  one  bare 
shoulder  and  slipped  from  the  other,  the  nearer  to  Peter. 
O'ertopping  her,  he  looked  at  her  flower-poised  head 
and  the  lovely  line  from  the  grace  of  her  neck  to  her 
symmetrical,  slender  shoulder,  curving  adorably  over 
the  smooth  roundness  to  the  firm  upper  arm.  She 
emerged,  snowy,  from  the  clasp  of  her  ivory  gown.  The 
silver  moonlight  gleamed  on  her  young  beauty.  The 
pink  carnations  at  her  breast  were  reflected  in  her 
cheeks  and  lips.  The  long  lashes  dropped  over  the 
mystery  of  her  eyes  as  he  passed  by  and  faced  her. 

Phyllis  had  worn  a  scarlet  poinsettia  against  her  white 
skin,  in  the  same  nook  where  Cynthia's  dear  carnations 
nestled;  and  she  had  invited  him  to  smell  the  flowers, 
ready  to  dart  away.  Peter  would  have  given  a  year  of 
his  life  to  be  asked  that  by  Cynthia  in  gentle  surrender. 
The  throwing  back  of  the  wrap  would  have  been  coquetry 
in  Phyllis.  He  did  not  misread  the  girl  he  loved,  whose 
gesture  was  instinctive,  symbol  of  her  resolve  to  bestow 
truth  as  well  as  demand  it. 

"What  is  it,  Peter?"  asked  Cynthia.  He  could  see 
the  swift  rise  and  fall  of  her  bosom.  The  simple  ques- 
tion touched  him  like  a  caress,  for  she  had  trusted  him 
so  greatly  in  coming! 

"Just  to  say  this,"  he  answered.  "I  care  for  you, 
Cynthia.  I  want  you.  I  believe  that  it  is  real  love 
which  I  feel,  not  a  passing  attraction.  I  wish  you  to 
know  it  because  of  the  difference  it  makes.  I  did  not 
insult  you  on  the  cliff.  I  was  irresistibly  drawn  to  do 
what  I  did.  It  happened  because  I  did  not  know,  and 
it  shan't  happen  again.  Will  you  forgive  me,  please, 
Cynthia?" 

"I  do  forgive  you,"  she  whispered.    "I  did  before." 

"That's  good!"  he  cried  starward,  yet  not  so  loud  as 
to  be  overheard  by  a  loiterer  in  the  garden.  A  passion 


THE  WINGS  OF  YOUTH  125 

of  relief  shook  him.  "Thank  you,"  he  said  from  the 
bottom  of  his  heart.  And  then  he  hung  his  head, 
abashed  by  her  generosity.  And  spied  the  dewdrops 
glistening  in  the  grass  at  her  feet.  Her  satin  slippers 
were  streaked  with  damp.  "Cynthia,  you  must  go  in," 
he  said,  speaking  masterfully  again,  so  that  she  felt  a 
little  thrill  of  joy.  It  gave  her  happiness  to  acquiesce 
in  the  orders  of  this  man  whom  she  did  not  love.  She 
turned  obediently  and  went,  passing  away  like  music, 
fading  into  a  memory  of  loveliness,  leaving  the  night 
dark. 

"It's  over,"  Peter  said  aloud.     He  was  thinking  of 
his  holiday.    His  travail  had  only  just  begun. 


XIV 

THE  'bus  he  had  descended  from  plunged  forward,  and 
the  portico  of  the  offices  of  the  Great  Company  frowned 
above  Peter,  already  depressed  by  the  roar  and  rattle 
of  the  City  streets  and  the  pallid,  elbowing  throng  of 
black-coated  clerks,  who  poured  out  of  the  tube  entrance 
opposite  and  traversed  the  narrow  thoroughfare  in  all 
directions  and  at  every  variety  of  pace.  The  familiar 
sight  took  him  back  into  a  world  from  which  it  was 
difficult  to  realise  he  had  ever  been  away.  "While  the 
image  of  Cynthia  slipped  into  his  under-mind  and  Corn- 
wall faded  from  memory,  London  and  the  Company 
resumed  him.  The  scent  of  the  night  flowers  could  not 
fight  against  the  stale  smell  of  petrol,  the  murmur  of 
the  sea  was  drowned  in  the  thunder  of  traffic,  cliff  walls 
gave  place  to  drab,  smoke-stained  architecture  on  either 
hand,  and  NINE  sounded  triumphantly  from  the  clock 
tower,  as  Peter  passed  the  commissionaire  and  entered 
the  courtyard  at  a  run. 

His  welcome  was  a  hasty  cry  of,  "Hullo,  Middleton! 
you'll  be  late,"  from  a  passing  High  Official  who  was 
well-disposed  to  him,  and  a  cold  stare  from  a  hurrying 
junior  whose  bundle  of  papers  and  air  of  confident 
superiority  proclaimed  him  to  be  on  the  staff  of  either 
Laurence  Man  or  the  Managing  Director.  Peter  dived 
into  the  gloomy  doorway  on  the  right,  which  had  once 
— while  overtime  was  being  worked — been  inscribed  by 
a  reckless  spirit  with  Dante 's  line,  Lasciate  ogwi  speranza 
voi  ch'entrate,  in  red  chalk.  The  inscription  escaped 
notice  in  the  dark,  but  next  morning  there  were  furious 
attempts  to  discover  the  culprit,  who  was  ultimately 
betrayed  and  dismissed.  Laurence  had  been  called 
upon  by  the  Managing  Director  to  translate  the  phrase, 
which  resulted  in  a  most  comical  scene! 

126 


THE  WINGS  OF  YOUTH  127 

"Abandon  hope,  all  ye  who  enter  here!"  Peter  had 
arrived,  glowingly  determined  to  make  the  best  of  his 
unpromising  employment  and  to  wring  success  and 
promotion  from  the  hands  of  fate  at  the  earliest  pos- 
sible moment.  The  sight  of  a  High  Official  standing 
over  the  signing-on  book,  beaked  like  a  bird  of  prey, 
ready  to  snatch  it  the  instant  the  five  minutes  of  grace 
were  up,  damped  his  enthusiasm  horribly.  He  knew  that 
Mr.  Lemon  had  greeted  those  who  came  before  the  clock 
struck  with  a  "Good  morning,"  even  though  they  were 
about  to  idle  away  the  next  quarter  of  an  hour;  while 
for  him,  returned  from  leave  and  eager  to  put  his  back 
into  the  work,  there  was  only  a  sidelong  glance  from 
narrowed  eyes,  because  he  was  two  minutes  late.  And 
old  Lemon  never  did  anything  himself  except  get  chaps 
into  trouble ! 

Thank  goodness,  he  was  sent  across  to  Brown!  The 
sight  of  his  kindly,  clean-shaven  face  and  dim  blue  eyes 
was  welcome  as  that  of  a  friend,  for  Mr.  Brown  was  one 
of  the  few  popular  High  Officials  in  Laurence  Man's 
department.  He  was  an  able,  truly  religious  man, 
courteous  and  just  in  all  his  dealings,  a  Quaker,  who 
always  considered  before  he  spoke,  and  enunciated  with 
precise,  clipping  care. 

"Good  morn-ing!  I  hope  you  enjoyed  your  leave, 
Mid-dleton." 

"Thank  you,  sir,  I  did."  Enjoy!  Does  a  man  enjoy 
Heaven  ?  Well,  after  all,  it  was  the  only  available  word. 
"How  are  the  butterflies  getting  on?" 

Mr.  Brown  was  an  enthusiastic  breeder  of  rare  Eng- 
lish butterflies,  which  he  was  said  to  release  in  Hyde 
Park  at  dead  of  night,  attired  (Mr.  Brown,  not  the  but- 
terflies!) in  purple  silk  pyjamas. 

" Excell-ently,  thanks!  Will  you  be  good  enough  to 
assist  Blotter  and  Sem-ple?" 

About  eleven  o'clock  Peter  had  time  to  look  round 
him,  and  did  so.  It  was  safe  under  Brown  to  do  this, 
although  the  incorrigible  Blotter  insisted  on  pretending 
to  work  when  there  was  no  work  to  be  done,  in  case 
of  the  unexpected  entry  of  a  High  Official.  ' '  You  never 


128  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

know  your  luck  with  them  Highos,"  he  was  reported 
to  have  said  when  he  first  entered  the  service,  from 
which  arose  his  malicious  nickname  of  "Old  Them," 
corrupted  to  "Old  Clem"  or  "Clement,"  which  most 
fellows  now  believed  to  be  his  Christian  name. 

' '  Married  the  pretty  daughter  yet  ? ' '  inquired  Semple, 
loudly. 

"Whose  pretty  daughter?"  grunted  Blotter,  without 
looking  up. 

"I  told  him  to  take  plenty  of  shirts,  and  then  she'd 
well  fall  in  love  with  him. ' ' 

Peter  knew  better  than  to  show  signs  of  anger.  "Why, 
oh  why,  had  he  given  this  animal  credit  for  any  of  the 
instincts  of  a  gentleman? 

"Be  quiet,  you  low  blackguard,"  he  said  genially. 
"Did  I  tread  upon  your  foot?  I'm  sorry.  I  hope  it 
hurt.  "Would  you  like  a  fight  afterwards?" 

"Are  you  mad,  you fool?"  demanded  Semple, 

staring. 

"Don't  you  swear  at  me!"  said  Peter,  coldly.  "I 
won't  have  it.  You  were  quite  right  about  the  clothes, 
Semple ;  I  needed  everything  I  took. ' ' 

Blotter  leaped  up  to  ask  for  work,  although  he  knew 
none  had  come  in,  and  this  changed  the  subject.  Semple 
turned  on  him. 

"It's  no  use  sucking  up  to  Brown,  old  !"  he 

observed.  ' '  He  knows  you ! ' ' 

' '  He  knows  a  good  man,  then ! ' '  retorted  Blotter,  com- 
placently. 

"Oh  my  god!  Good  gargoyle,  you  mean!  If  you 

dressed  up  as  a  butterfly  he  might  take  some 

notice  of  you,  and  then  your  face  would  spoil 

it." 

"How  did  I  stand  this  filthy  swearing?"  thought 
Peter.  "Old  Semple  only  knows  two  words,  and  if  I 
can't  stick  them,  how  the  deuce  shall  I  put  up  with  the 
really  dirty  talk  of  Kilworth  and  Pulley?  There  I  go 

myself!  I'd  never  have  talked  of  the  deuce  at I 

won't  think  the  name  here.  But  it's  a  serious  matter, 
for  one's  got  to  enjoy  dirt  to  be  comfortable  in  this 


THE  WINGS  OF  YOUTH  129 

infernal  place.  I  suppose  I'll  become  accustomed  to  it 
again,  but  I'm  bothered  if  I'll  ever  let  myself  like  it." 

' '  Heard  Kilworth  's  latest  limerick  ? ' '  inquired  Semple. 
' '  Oh, !  Here 's  the  work. ' ' 

At  lunch  Peter  collected  a  table-full  of  men  whom  he 
liked,  and  heard  the  news.  The  most  popular  chap  in 
the  Office  had  gone  round  telling  a  funny  story  about 
a  goat  and  no  one  could  find  out  what  the  joke  was, 
although  he  seemed  to  see  it  quite  plainly  himself.  Every- 
body in  the  building  had  made  an  excuse  to  come  and 
ask  for  that  yarn!  .  .  .  There  was  a  rumour  that  the 
Managing  Director  was  thinking  of  retiring  to  a  quieter 
place  on  the  Board.  Half  the  table  were  backing  Lau- 
rence Man  to  get  his  place.  .  .  .  The  Directors  had  pro- 
moted young  Mainwaring,  whom  Peter  had  met  in  the 
Courtyard,  though  there  were  fifteen  men  senior  to  him, 
of  whom  five  at  least  were  better  clerks.  The  table 
agreed  that  Peter  was  one  of  the  five.  .  .  .  Blotter  would 
probably  get  the  next  vacancy  in  Department  B.  "If  so 
that's  an  end  to  your  chances  of  quick  promotion,  Mid- 
dleton.  Well,  we  've  all  seen  these  lads  with  interest  pass 
over  our  heads.  You  're  in  good  company,  old  boy ! ' ' 

One  of  the  New  Entrants,  or  News  as  they  were  called 
in  office  slang,  was  delightfully  green.  O'Brien,  who 
lived  in  the  country — " where  all  the  decent  sorts  live: 
what  the  deuce  makes  you  dig  in  London,  Peter?" — 
had  told  him  how  on  the  way  to  the  station  he  had 
tripped  over  a  nest  of  field-mice,  containing  three  hun- 
dred and  sixty-five  young  ones.  Field-mice,  0  'Brien  had 
explained  with  gravity,  are  very  prolific.  And  the 
mother  had  run  at  him  and  bitten  him  in  the  heel  through 
a  stout  walking  boot,  and  did  the  New  think  he  was  in 
danger  of  hydrophobia?  The  New  had  actually  con- 
sulted old  Lemon — "Isn't  that  man  a  swine,  Peter? 
Always  getting  some  poor  devil  into  a  row," — and  the 
Old  'Un  had  said  gruffly,  "Good  job  if  he  does  get  it. 
Tell  him  I  said  so.  Don't  come  to  me  with  silly  ques- 
tions. Stupid  young  ass!"  He  was  right  for  once. 

After  lunch  Peter  went  out  with  a  message,  which  he 
was  ordered  to  deliver  at  a  number  of  addresses.  He 


130  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

came  into  Cheapside  and  saluted  the  Church,  dingy  in 
the  afternoon  sunshine,  with  Gog  and  Magog  over  its 
projecting  clock.  The  famous  Bow-bells  were  pealing; 
entitling  Cockneys.  Peter  was  one  of  the  few  who  knew 
that  St.  Mary-le-Bow  derives  its  name  from  the  arches 
of  its  old  crypt.  Down  Queen  Street  he  walked  at  a 
swift  pace,  past  Jones  and  Evans'  Bookshop  where  duty 
forbade  him  to  linger,  into  the  dulness  of  Queen  Victoria 
Street,  only  partially  redeemed  by  its  branch  of  Mudie  's ; 
then  on  to  the  civic  centre  of  London,  where  the  Bank 
and  the  Mansion  House  and  the  Royal  Exchange  gloom 
at  one  another  across  the  crowding  traffic.  The  courts 
and  alleys  of  Cornhill  led  him  to  heavy  Lombard  Street, 
from  which  he  gladly  emerged,  and  passed  Leadenhall 
Market  into  the  sunshine  of  Bishopsgate,  and  turned 
backward  through  Adam 's  Court  to  the  Stock  Exchange, 
and  pushed  through  Throgmorton  Street,  swarming  with 
hatless  clerks.  In  Lothbury  he  bought  chocolate  from 
the  poet  Shepperley,  and  hurried  on  to  the  mellow  calm 
of  the  Guildhall,  within  sight  of  which  he  ended  his 
mission;  and  so  strolled  regretfully  officeward  through 
the  hot,  narrow  streets,  feeling  as  though  the  City  had 
welcomed  him  again  and  claimed  him  as  her  own. 

He  had  deliberately  put  aside  all  thought  of  Cynthia 
until  he  should  be  on  the  'bus  homeward-bound  in  the 
cool  of  the  evening.  While  gulping  his  tea  at  six  o  'clock, 
listening  to  the  curiously  mingled  clatter  and  hush  of 
a  big  restaurant,  he  kept  strictly  to  his  resolve.  No 
sound  of  the  sea  intruded.  The  listless  attendant  did 
not  break  a  spell  as  she  slanted  her  indifferent  head  to 
take  his  order,  nor  when  she  brought  him  cake  instead  of 
bread  did  he  fail  to  point  out  the  error.  "O-ah!"  she 
said.  "Sorry!"  And  reached  out  a  perfunctory  hand. 
' '  Thanks,  I  '11  keep  it, ' '  Peter  told  her,  remembering  she 
might  be  tired  as  well  as  haughty.  .  .  .  He  paid  at  the 
desk,  pushed  back  the  swing-door,  and  sniffed  the  warm, 
rubbery  smell  of  the  City  street.  An  instant  later  he 
was  on  his  'bus,  plunged  into  memories  and  calculations. 

St.  Paul's  Cathedral  loomed,  and  swung  past.  He  was 
getting  £135  a  year  and  Cynthia  probably  spent  that  on 


THE  WINGS  OF  YOUTH  131 

clothes  alone.  He  liked  her  best  in  white,  he  thought. 
He  was  visioning  her  in  white  as  the  'bus  racketed  under 
dark  Ludgate  Bridge.  It  crossed  the  Circus  with  the 
favouring  stream  of  traffic  and  drew  to  a  standstill  at  the 
bottom  of  Fleet  Street.  Confound  that  man,  Blotter! 
It  was  certainly  possible  that  he  would  be  promoted 
above  Peter's  head.  And  yet  Blotter  did  not  do  nearly 
as  much  work,  and  was  not  more  accurate,  although  he 
might  appear  so  through  his  artful  avoidance  of  posts  of 
danger.  That  was  the  result  of  judging  a  man  on  nega- 
tive grounds,  according  to  the  smallness  of  number  of 
the  mistakes  recorded  against  him  in  that  infernal  book 
they  kept  in  Department  A.  It  was  all  a  kind  of  lottery 
whether  Peter  were  promoted  or  sacked.  Ha — ,  no,  not 
hang  it  all,  but  bother!  Why,  how  many  hundreds  of 
mistakes  of  young  Main  waring 's  had  not  he  himself 
picked  up  as  checker !  If  only  one  of  those  had  slipped 
through,  Lordly  Laurence  would  have  cursed  as  though 
it  were  the  sole  error  which  had  been  made  by  the  staff 
of  the  Great  Company  for  years.  But  he — Peter — had 
no  right  to  complain !  Why,  every  one  of  the  bloomers 
he  had  made  immediately  before  going  on  leave  had 
been  discovered  before  it  reached  a  Higho.  And  he'd 
made  a  thundering  lot  and  deserved  to  be  properly  told 
off!  Here  was  the  Griffin  of  Temple  Bar,  and  there 
were  the  appropriate  Law  Courts;  Peter  proceeded  to 
talk  to  himself  severely. 

Work  slow ;  copperplate  handwriting ;  check  every- 
thing twice ;  let  the  public  wait.  Those  were  to  be  his 
mottoes  for  the  future.  "Middleton  is  a  most  reliable 
man,"  in  unctuous  tones,  must  replace,  "He's  a  quick 
worker.  Give  it  to  him  to  do.  Here,  Middleton!  Don't 
make  any  mistakes  and  let  yourself  in  for  trouble,  but 
get  this  done  sharp.  The  people  are  waiting." 

Supposing  it  did,  what  had  he  to  hope  for,  beyond  the 
sight  of  St.  Clement  Dane's  every  evening  on  his  way 
home  from  the  Office?  Was  there  any  other  thorough- 
fare in  the  world,  he  wondered,  with  two  churches  in  the 
middle  of  the  street  within  a  few  hundred  yards  of  each 
other?  He  liked  St.  Mary's  the  better  of  the  two.  It 


132  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

passed,  and  the  Gaiety  Theatre  rushed  towards  him.  If 
he  could  get  into  Department  A  he  would  soon  be  re- 
ceiving £180  a  year,  and  might  rise  to  £800  before  he 
retired.  Laurence  Man  must  be  getting  that  now,  and 
he  had  a  very  good  chance  of  becoming  Managing  Di- 
rector. There  were  undoubtedly  prospects  in  Depart- 
ment A.  But  without  interest  had  Peter  any  reasonable 
hope  of  being  selected  for  that  favoured  spot?  The 
Bremners  were  not  the  kind  of  people — he  was  glad  to 
think — who  would  ask  Man  to  push  him  forward. 

The  Savoy  and  the  Cecil  taunted  Peter  by  reminding 
him  of  the  wealth  in  the  world.  He  would  like  to  give  a 
supper  at  the  Savoy  to  Cynthia  and  Alan  and  Miss 
Taliesin.  It  seemed  to  him  an  extraordinary  thing  that 
he  had  never  known  before  how  lovely  could  be  a  girl's 
arms.  Even  in  long  sleeves  her  dear  slender  wrists 
fascinated  him.  .  .  .  But  this  was  not  business.  No,  he 
must  face  the  prospect  of  staying  in  his  own  office  and  see 
how  that  worked  out.  "When  he  arrived  at  the  age  of 
thirty  he  might  be  getting  £200  a  year,  and  might  reach 
£350  before  he  retired.  My  word !  Could  he  ask  Cynthia 
Rosemary  Bremner  to  wait  six  years  and  then  share  an 
income  of  £200  ?  It  would  not  be  fair !  Nelson  stooped 
from  his  Monument  to  whisper  that  a  Middleton  could 
not  do  such  a  thing.  Then  was  he  to  give  her  up? 
Something  said  aloud  in  his  heart:  "You  are  strong 
enough.  You  are  not  a  coward.  But  I  shall  not  let 
you."  He  started  violently,  and  the  typist  who  shared 
the  front  seat  of  the  'bus  glanced  at  him  apprehensively. 
"A  nice-looking  boy,"  she  thought,  relieved.  "He  must 
have  seen  a  girl  he  knew  on  the  pavement  there.  I  wish 
I  had  a  nice  boy  like  him  to  take  me  out ! ' ' 

The  voice  had  been  objective  and  impersonal,  as  if 
Fate  had  spoken.  For  the  time  Peter  gave  up  the  idea  of 
renunciation,  and  devoted  himself  to  practical  matters. 
Cockspur  Street  with  its  models  of  steamships  in  the 
Shipping  Companies'  Offices,  His  Majesty's  Theatre, 
Piccadilly  Circus,  Piccadilly  itself,  the  dried  meadow 
beauty  of  the  Green  Park,  the  solid  row  of  clubs  and 
mansions  facing  it,  Hyde  Park  Corner  and  Knightsbridge 


THE  WINGS  OF  YOUTH  133 

fled  by  like  phantoms  of  a  dream,  while  he  endeavoured 
to  work  out  a  budget  for  two  people  with  £200  a  year. 
It  included  many  day  dresses  and  evening  frocks  for 
Cynthia.  ' '  What  on  earth  do  girls  pay  for  their  clothes  ? 
I  must  look  in  the  shop- windows !"  Ignorant  Peter! 
Lady  Bremner  does  not  go  to  the  shop-windows  for 
garments  for  Rosemary.  The  flap  of  the  budget  would 
not  close.  In  passing  the  hideous  Knightsbridge  Barracks 
it  flew  open  and  showed  the  financier  that  he  had  for- 
gotten servants  for  his  small  house  and  also  the  cost  of 
lighting.  Was  it  certain  he  could  clothe  himself  on  £4 
a  year,  and  subsist  on  sandwiches  for  lunch  ?  Peter  was 
a  tall  man  with  a  tall  appetite.  The  dusty  green  of 
Hyde  Park,  soft  and  cool  in  the  summer  evening  haze, 
glided  by  with  noiseless,  smooth  flow  of  railings  and 
trees.  People  whizzed  by  in  hooting  landaulets  on  their 
way  to  dinner.  The  hoods  of  the  cars  were  down,  and 
most  of  the  women  and  girls  were  wearing  light  colours. 
With  a  flash  of  white  they  were  gone.  The  outlines  of 
the  Albert  Hall  were  sharp  against  the  rosy  sky.  The 
'bus  gathered  speed  down  the  long  incline.  Still  Peter 
wrestled  with  his  figures.  He  strove  against  their 
tendency  to  expand  the  moment  the  grip  of  his  will  was 
removed.  After  settling  the  allowance  for  housekeeping 
at  ten  shillings  each  per  week  ("St.  Mary  Abbot's? 
That's  rather  a  church  for  weddings!")  he  flew  down 
the  Kensington  Road  ("Campden  Hill  would  be  the 
jolliest  place,  or  Holland  Park.  Rent  makes  them  impos- 
sible, I  suppose"),  and  came  to  the  conclusion  that  for 
fifteen  shillings  apiece  two  people  ought  to  do  themselves 
fairly  decently.  "That  throws  the  whole  thing  out.  I 
said  ten  just  now!"  He  wrestled  with  his  budget  all 
the  way  to  Hammersmith  in  a  fury  of  concentration,  but 
it  declined  to  reclose.  "After  all,  it's  only  an  estimate," 
he  thought,  dismounting  from  the  Tms  in  front  of  the 
District  station.  The  Broadway  was  bustling.  Shabby, 
sordid  people  crowded  along  the  pavements,  each  intent 
on  his  or  her  particular  shopping.  The  door  of  a  public- 
house  swung-to,  driving  into  the  street  a  waft  of  hot, 
alcoholic  air,  "The  sea!"  longed  Peter.  "The  salt 


134  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

briny  smell  and  green  combers,  and  Cynthia  standing 
close,  silent  and  loving  it  too."  He  reached  his  lodg- 
ings, which  were  in  a  tall,  Georgian,  shabby-genteel  house 
in  a  row  of  others  exactly  similar,  and  climbed  flights 
of  stairs  to  his  little  sitting-room  with  its  faded  red  cur- 
tains, and  its  one  comfortable  chair,  and  its  horsehair 
monstrosity  of  a  sofa,  and  the  two  photographs  on  the 
bare  mantelpiece,  and  the  Diirer  engravings  on  the  walls 
amongst  the  cheap  oleographs  of  his  landlady's  fancy. 
The  windows  were  wide  open,  and  the  room  was  cool. 
Peter  crossed  to  the  fireplace  and  looked  at  the  photo- 
graphs one  after  the  other.  What  would  his  father  say  ? 
He  would  say  in  his  kind,  sad  voice,  "My  boy,  she  does 
not  love  you  yet.  Let  her  alone.  It  is  hard  to  see  the 
woman  you  care  for  pining  in  poverty. ' '  Cynthia,  with- 
out her  sea.  breezes,  and  her  many  books,  and  her  beau- 
tiful clinging  gowns.  Cynthia  in  a  blouse  and  skirt,  her 
oldest,  doing  the  cooking!  "Why  not?"  asked  the  face 
of  the  mother  whom  he  had  never  seen.  "If  she  loved 
you,  little  son  of  mine,  she  would  be  glad  and  proud  to 
work  for  you."  His  mother  had  sweet  eyes.  She  had 
followed  her  husband  over  all  the  world,  suffered  many 
a  hardship  with  him;  perhaps  had  died  because  she 
would  not  leave  him.  .  .  . 

The  voice  which  had  spoken  before  in  Peter's  heart 
said  clearly  and  distinctly,  ' '  I  shall  not  let  you  give  her 
up."  He  felt  a  cold  shudder  run  down  his  spine  and 
his  hair  seemed  to  lift,  his  pulses  to  stand  still.  The 
voice  said,  more  faintly,  "She  is  yours."  He  came  to 
himself,  and  turning,  went  into  the  bedroom  and  fell 
upon  his  knees. 


XT 

A  MONTH  later,  having  neither  written  to  nor  heard  news 
of  Cynthia  in  the  meantime,  Peter  descended  from  his 
'bus  in  the  Haymarket  and  turned  up  Panton  Street. 
He  had  obtained  Shaun  James's  number  from  Who's 
Who,  and  in  a  few  moments  was  ringing  a  bell  above  a 
plate  marked  with  the  novelist's  name  at  a  door  beside 
a  fruiterer's  shop.  A  buxom,  elderly  woman  came  out 
of  the  shop  and,  seeing  Peter  standing  before  the  sep- 
arate entrance  to  the  upper  premises,  went  back  again 
after  bidding  him  a  respectful,  "Good  evening,  sir." 
Peter  liked  her  face.  Shaun  opened  the  door  while  Peter 
was  watching  her  hang  row  after  row  of  bananas  on 
hooks  in  the  ceiling  of  the  little  room. 

"They  look  after  me,"  said  Shaun.  "Do  it  very  well. 
Come  in,  please,  Middleton.  I'm  delighted  to  see  you. 
I  was  expecting  you  soon.  Forgive  my  leading  the  way 
up  these  dark  stairs.  Mind  your  head  at  the  turn. 
People  over  five  foot  ten  bump  their  heads  most  pain- 
fully there,  I'm  told." 

Peter  followed,  astonished,  and  was  taken  into  a  large, 
dark  sitting-room  on  the  second  floor.  The  well-worn 
furniture  was  upholstered  in  green,  and  the  carpet,  which 
was  very  thick  and  warm,  had  once  been  purple  but  had 
now  faded  almost  to  the  hue  of  lavender.  A  wide  writing- 
table  stood  in  one  of  the  windows,  with  a  neat  pile  of 
manuscript  upon  it,  also  some  ragged  blotting-paper,  and 
a  vase  of  yellow  gaillardias.  "A  present  from  down- 
stairs, ' '  explained  Shaun,  who  seemed  to  have  the  power 
of  reading  his  guest's  thoughts.  "  They  give  me  flowers 
daily.  Take  the  big  chair  unless  you'd  rather  wander 
round  and  look  at  the  pictures.  I'm  lucky  in  knowing 
chaps  who  paint,  and  most  of  these  sketches  are  really 

135 


136  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

good.  You  don't  smoke  a  pipe,  do  you?  Then  take 
one  of  these  cigarettes,  if  you  don't  mind  Virginian. 
Odd,  you  look  the  kind  of  man  who  would  swear  by  a 
pipe.  I'll  have  mine,  I  think.  That's  an  Orpen  you 
are  in  front  of  now.  Shame  to  hang  it  in  such  a  bad 
light,  isn't  it?  But  it's  too  big  for  anywhere  else  in 
the  room." 

"It's  awfully  fine,"  said  Peter,  reverently.  The  tone 
with  which  he  spoke  made  the  novelist  regard  him,  an 
interested  look  in  his  sharp,  blue  eyes. 

"You  know,  then "  he  was  beginning,  when  Peter 

turned,  and  lowering  himself  into  the  big  arm-chair,  said 
abruptly:  "Forgive  me  if  I'm  rude,  Mr.  James,  but 
would  you  mind  saying  why  you  were  expecting  me  to 
come?" 

"Call  me  James,  and  bother  the  Mr.!"  said  the  kind 
voice,  veiled  as  though  its  owner  were  considering. 
"Anyone  Miss  Bremner  likes  is  a  friend  of  mine  if  he 
cares  to  be.  I  might  say  that  I  thought  she  would  ask 
you  to  call  on  me,  but  if  I  did  it  wouldn't  be  wholly 
ingenuous.  I  hoped  that  you  liked  me  well  enough  to 
come  and  ask  my  advice.  Draw  any  or  no  conclusions 
as  you  please,  Middleton,  but  when  I  saw  you  on  the 
doorstep  I  knew  you  had  come  for  a  definite  purpose.  I 
am  glad"  to  see  you  in  any  case.  Now  shall  we  discuss 
the  horse?" 

' '  The  horse  ? ' '  repeated  Peter,  too  nervous  to  be  quick 
of  apprehension. 

"A  sagacious  animal,  with  a  leg  at  each  corner.  'Ce 
noble  et  f ougueux  animal, '  says  Buffon,  who  must  not  be 
confounded  with  buffoon.  Not  that  you'd  do  that!" 

"No,  don't  lets!  I  did  come  for  a  reason.  I 
wouldn't  have  ventured  to  without,  although  I  should 
have  wanted  to  tremendously.  I  came  to  ask  you  a 
question. ' ' 

The  light  had  grown  dimmer  in  the  last  few  moments, 
but  Peter  had  a  fleeting  impression  that  Shaun  smiled. 
"I  do  not  believe  you'd  ask  what  I  should  not  want  to 
answer,  Middleton." 

Peter  recollected  himself.     "I  was  awfully  sorry  to 


THE  WINGS  OF  YOUTH  137 

hear  what  called  you  away  from  Tintagel.  Only  I 
couldn't  write." 

"Thank  you.  She  was  old  and  not  sorry  to  go. 
Death,  if  we  trustlour  hopes,  cannot  be  a  sad  thing  for 
the  people  who  die.  In  my  mother's  case  an  old  servant 
is  left  most  lonely. ' '  Shaun  would  not  claim  sorrow  for 
himself,  feeling  that  he  had  not  the  right,  as  he  had 
left  the  dead  'most  lonely'  during  her  lifetime.  If 
Middleton  thought  him  heartless — well,  he  deserved  it! 

Peter  found  it  difficult  now  to  put  his  question. 

"I  cannot  conjecture  with  any  certainty  what  you 
are  going  to  ask  me.  Please  be  quite  frank, ' '  said  Shaun, 
leaning  back  to  tap  his  pipe  on  the  bars  of  the  grate. 

Peter  looked  up.  "It  seems  impertinent  now  that 
I'm  actually  here,"  he  said,  slowly,  "but  you've  been 
very  kind,  so  I  will  ask  you  whether  there  is  any  chance 
of  your  marrying  Miss  Bremner.  I  don't  mean  proba- 
bility. It  would  be  frightful  cheek  to  make  inquiries 
about  that.  If  you'd  answer  the  question  just  as  it 
stands  it  would  be  very  generous  of  you. ' ' 

"There  is  no  chance  whatever,"  said  Shaun.  "Put 
that  idea  out  of  your  head  entirely.  She  never  wished 
me  to  be  anything  but  a  friend,  and  I  am  no  longer 
trying  to  be.  That  is  categorical." 

' '  Thank  you, ' '  said  Peter,  rising.  He  looked  happier, 
but  still  a  trifle  perplexed,  and  his  face,  coming  into  the 
light,  looked  pale,  as  though  he  had  lain  awake  at  nights. 
So  thought  Shaun,  who  did  not  move. 

"You  have  found  out,  almost  to  your  own  surprise, 
that  you  love  her  in  the  true  sense  of  the  word,"  he 
asserted  quietly.  "I  am  glad,  and  should  like  to  help 
you.  I  imagine  you  are  troubled  by  various  honour- 
able scruples,  the  nature  of  which  I  may  say  with  frank- 
ness that  it  is  not  difficult  to  guess!  If  you  would 
like  to  talk  them  out  with  some  one  else  who  cares  very 
greatly  for  her  welfare,  please  believe  that  I  am  your 
friend." 

"  It  is  good  of  you, ' '  said  Peter,  with  emphasis,  remain- 
ing standing.  "There's  something  more  in  my  mind 
which  I've  got  to  tell  you  now  before  you  allow  me  to 


138  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

be  friends.  I  came  here  undecided  whether  to  say  it, 
and  it's  only  fair  to  have  things  out.  It's  worse  cheek 
than  ever,  this,  but  I  honestly  don't  think  I'm  consider- 
ing anyone  but  her,  really.  She 's  so  tremendously  influ- 
enced by  you,  you  see.  I  can't  help  wondering  whether 
she  would  marry  any  one  at  all  while  she's  got  your 
friendship;  she  compares  people  with  you  so,  in  her 
mind,  I  mean.  Even  if  she  met  a  man  who  understood 
things  and  people  the  way  you  do,  he  couldn't  start  by 
knowing  her  so  well.  .  .  .  You  do  see,  don 't  you  1 ' ' 

' '  I  understand  you  to  suggest  that  I  give  her  up  alto- 
gether?" asked  Shaun,  in  a  dry  tone. 

"No,"  said  Peter,  "I'm  not  so  bad  as  that.  Only  it 
was  in  my  mind,  and  I  thought  it  fair  to  tell  you  since 
you  were  being  so  kind  to  me." 

"I  was  the  same  variety  of  ass  as  you,  once!"  ex- 
claimed Shaun,  springing  up.  "Upon  my  soul,  Peter, 
I  'm  glad  to  be  reminded  of  it !  Sit  you  right  down,  and 
light  up,  while  I  go  and  tell  them  you  are  staying  to 
dinner.  It's  got  to  be.  Don't  say  a  word  now.  I've 
set  my  heart  on  it!" 

Peter  felt  very  shy  when  he  found  himself  alone  in 
the  great  man's  room.  There  was  a  glow  and  warmth 
within  him,  such  as  a  man  feels  who  has  found  some- 
thing unaccountably  beautiful  of  which  he  but  half  un- 
derstands the  value.  He  admired  Shaun  James  ,so  art- 
lessly, and  it  seemed  so  impossible  that  James  should 
be  interested  in  him  in  return. 

In  a  moment  the  novelist  came  back.  ' '  Miss  Bremner, 
whom  we  'd  better  call  Cynthia  now  that  we  're  friends,  is 
I  think  in  only  the  very  slightest  danger  of  being  mo- 
nopolised by  me.  I've  been  alive  from  the  beginning  to 
the  risk  you  point  out,  and  I've  taken  careful  precau- 
tions to  eliminate  unconscious  romanticism — if  you'll 
forgive  a  clumsy  phrase.  A  short  time  ago  I  proved 
my  success."  He  made  a  grimace  of  pain.  "Merciful 
Providence  did  not  make  me  the  kind  of  artist  who  loves 
to  dominate  young  girls  under  a  pretence  of  education. 
Now  you  fire  ahead  with  your  story. ' ' 

Peter  began.    At  first  he  was  nervous,  and  involved 


THE  WINGS  OF  YOUTH  139 

his  narrative  by  stopping  to  explain  bits  of  psychology 
which  were  transparently  simple  to  Shaun.  Sometimes 
he  puzzled  himself  in  the  process.  ' '  The  boy  is  innocent 
enough!"  thought  Shaun.  "If  I  could  remember  the 
time  when  I  was  as  young  as  this,  I'd  make  a  book  of 
it."  But  when  dinner  was  brought  in  and  the  lights 
were  turned  on,  Peter  grew  in  courage  and  told  his 
story  well,  helped  by  the  ingenious  questions  of  his  host. 

"By  the  way,"  warned  Shaun,  suddenly,  "you  are 
trusting  me  a  good  deal.  Don't  trust  any  other  literary 
man  in  the  world.  We  batten  on  confidences.  I  promise 
I'll  try  not  to  use  what  you're  telling  me." 

Peter  looked  rather  alarmed.  "Go  on,"  said  Shaun. 
"It's  all  right."  He  only  interrupted  once  more.  Then 
he  asked,  "Do  you  sketch?  You  talk  as  though  you 
saw  colour  and  mass  uncommonly  clearly. ' '  Peter  came 
from  the  Keep  of  Tintagel  with  reluctance.  Shaun 
could  almost  see  the  image  of  Cynthia  fading  from  be- 
fore his  eyes.  ' '  Don 't  answer.  Go  on, ' '  he  said  hastily. 

They  were  seated  in  big  chairs  by  a  window  in  the  hot 
August  dusk.  Their  own  narrow  thoroughfare  was 
silent.  Coventry  Street  roared  at  the  back  of  them, 
Leicester  Square  on  their  one  side,  the  Haymarket  on 
their  other;  but  from  the  south  the  noise  of  Cockspur 
Street  and  Trafalgar  Square  was  dulled  by  distance 
and  intervening  houses  to  a  steady  hum  of  traffic.  The 
sky  was  grey,  wreathed  with  dim  clouds  and  striped  with 
thin  streaks  of  rising  smoke.  When  he  had  finished 
Peter  sat  looking  up  at  it,  wondering  whether  it  was 
clear  and  bright  for  Cynthia  wherever  she  might  be. 

"I  don't  pay  much  attention  to  that  Inner  Voice  of 
yours,"  said  Shaun,  at  last.  "It's  probably  a  trick  of 
the  subconscious  self,  and  most  lovers  believe  the  girl 
they  love  is  theirs.  I  speak  of  it  first  in  order  to  get  it 
out  of  the  way.  I  know  you  were  not  over-impressed. 
Your  financial  position  we'll  discuss  presently.  It  may 
not  be  so  bad  as  you  think.  On  the  point  of  honour 
I  agree  with  you,  Peter.  You  had  not  any  right  to  make 
love  to  Cynthia  Bremner.  No  more  had  I,  and  we  are 
a  pair  of  knaves." 


140  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

Peter's  heart  sank,  changing  into  a  lump  of  lead. 

"The  reason  why  I  expected  you,  and  why  I  encour- 
aged you  to  discuss  the  matter  when  you  came,  is  this, ' ' 
explained  Shaun.  "As  you've  no  doubt  guessed, 
Cynthia  wrote  me  some  account  of  what  happened  on 
your  last  evening  at  Tintagel.  She  was  very  brief,  and 
from  what  she  said  and  did  not  say — more  particularly 
the  latter — I  gathered  you  had  made  an  impression  on 
her  which — well,  we'll  say  which  differed  from  what 
I,  for  example,  have  achieved.  She  seemed  to  be  think- 
ing of  you  with  a  shyness  new  in  my  experience  of 
Cynthia,  who  does  not  lack  self-confidence  as  a  rule 
and  is  accustomed  to  dismissing  men.  I  do  not  mean 
she  is  hard-hearted.  That  she  could  never  be.  Nor 
has  she  learnt  how  to  deal  with  people  who  rave  and 
throw  themselves  at  her  feet.  But  she  has  probably 
refused  twenty  or  thirty  ordinary  enough  young  fellows 
and  a  few  extraordinary  elderly  ones  also,  all  of  whom 
have  taken  her  refusal  normally.  She  has  told  me  about 
five  or  six  and  sometimes  asked  my  advice.  You  must 
remember  I  know  her  well,  Peter." 

Peter's  heart  was  a  flame  of  fire.  "What  do  you 
think,  then  ? "  he  managed  to  blurt  out. 

"I  thought  no  more  than  I  have  said.  Now,  having 
heard  everything  from  you,  I  am  inclined  to  believe  that 
she's  beginning  to  care  for  you,  unknown  to  herself. 
That  is  my  impression.  Are  you  all  right?  It's  hot  in 
this  room,  isn't  it?" 

"Yes,  thanks,"  said  Peter,  with  set  face. 

' '  Remember  literary  people  are  always  cocksure  when 
it's  a  question  of  human  nature.  I'm  not  infallible.  I 
only  give  you  my  impression.  At  the  same  time  I've 
weighed  the  probable  consequences  of  saying  what  I  do 
say.  I  'm  not  speaking  lightly,  as  you  may  guess.  Tell 
me  all  over  again  about  your  prospects,  will  you?  And 
give  me  some  details  of  your  work." 

Shaun  listened  awhile,  and  said,  ' '  Is  that  the  Laurence 
Man  who  was  at  Tintagel  ?  He  is  unlikely  to  be  friendly 
to  you." 

"He's  not  very  popular,"  answered  Peter  vaguely. 


THE  WINGS  OF  YOUTH  141 

Presently  Shaun  summed  up.  "Secret  reports  on 
staff  are  the  devil,  always.  You  would  have  been  much 
better  off  in  the  Government  Service.  It  seems  to  me, 
Peter,  you  were  born  too  late.  The  rules  under  which 
you  are  working  date  from  a  time  when  the  Directors 
could  afford  to  employ  plenty  of  men  and  treat  them 
well.  The  staff  was  therefore  selected  with  a  view  to 
the  maintenance  of  the  dignity  of  the  Company  in  the 
eyes  of  the  public,  and  gentlemen  were  preferred.  Now 
the  Board  is  inclined  to  grudge  the  men  their  salary  and 
yet  lacks  the  moral  courage  to  introduce  cheap  labour 
in  a  straightforward  way.  Instead  it  goes  in  for  petty 
economy  and  deferring  promotions  and  other  devices 
which  create  ill-feeling  between  employers  and  employed. 
Say  that  again  about  handwriting.  I  don 't  understand. 
To  select  men  for  the  most  important  office  because  they 
write  not  only  clearly  but  in  a  special  style  approved 
by  the  Company,  seems  to  me  merely  fantastic." 

"It  is,  now  that  all  the  letters  out  are  typewritten," 
said  Peter.  "The  Highos  get  attacks  of  madness  about 
handwriting.  I  've  been  in  the  place  six  years,  and  I  've 
just  had  to  send  in  a  'test,'  an  example  of  my  writing. 
I  've  had  lessons  and  altered  it  once  to  suit  them  already. 
Usually,  asking  for  a  test  means  that  they  are  looking 
for  an  excuse  to  get  a  man  into  trouble,  but  it  can't  be 
that  in  my  case." 

"Why  not?"  asked  Shaun. 

"I  know  I'm  above  the  average  at  my  job,"  answered 
Peter. 

Shaun  looked  serious.  "Do  you  think  that  Man  likes 
you  ? ' ' 

"No,"  said  Peter,  and  he  suddenly  recollected  the 
incident  at  the  Bremners'  dinner-party,  when  he  had  ad- 
mitted before  his  Chief  that  he  did  not  love  his  employ- 
ment. "No,  I  suppose  he  doesn't!" 

"Well!"  said  Shaun  drily,  "I  make  a  deduction." 

"Really  it  can't  be  that,"  exclaimed  Peter. 

"I  hope  it  isn't!  Could  it  mean  promotion  by  any 
chance  ? ' ' 

"Now,  that  isn't  the  way  they  do  things.     I  should 


142  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

have  been  given  a  hint  when  the  test  was  asked  for.  And 
several  other  men  had  to  send  them  in  as  well. ' ' 

""Were  they  good  men  at  their  job?" 

"Some  good,  some  bad.  Really,  I  don't  expect  to 
hear  any  more  of  it!" 

"It  may  be  only  my  professional  eye  looking  ahead 
for  a  melodramatic  incident,  Peter.  But  truth  is  stranger 
than  fiction,  and  life  often  more  sensational  than  a 
cinema-play.  Don't  forget,  and  take  care.  Now  I'm 
going  to  turn  you  out,  for  a  reason  that  I  know  you'll 
understand  and  sympathise  with.  I've  got  a  day's 
writing  to  do  to-morrow  and  must  go  to  bed  early  as  a 
matter  of  duty,  against  my  inclination." 

Peter  understood  and  said  so.  He  got  up,  feeling 
dazed,  as  from  a  long  night's  tossing,  and  immensely 
tired.  Many  waves  of  emotion  had  broken  upon  him  in 
the  last  four  hours,  excitement  had  followed  excitement. 
Everything  had  appeared  normal  and  simple  while  it 
was  happening,  and  was  so  in  fact,  but  the  cumulative  ef- 
fect was  not  ordinary.  An  extremely  sensitive  nervous 
system,  such  as  most  creative  artists  possess,  would  have 
undergone  reaction  and  its  owner  been  a  prey  to  a  horri- 
ble melancholy  of  the  remainder  of  the  night,  but  Peter 
was  of  tougher  fibre.  He  merely  became  conscious  of 
fatigue,  and  felt  he  must  put  off  his  decision  until  next 
morning.  He  still  thought  that  to  give  Cynthia  up 
lay  in  his  power  and  that  it  might  prove  to  be  his 
duty. 

The  deep-tinted  room  and  the  glorious  paintings  on 
the  walls  were  strangely  familiar  to  Peter  as  he  went  out. 
He  seemed  to  have  lived  years  with  them,  happy  years 
which  had  glided  by  with  swiftness.  It  was  startling  to 
descend  the  dark,  unknown  staircase,  and  to  hear  Shaun  's 
steps  tapping  behind.  The  noise  the  pair  of  them  made 
on  the  uncarpeted  boards  racketed  through  the  whole 
house.  "I'm  very  rarely  in  late!"  said  Shaun 's  voice, 
a  sound  that  Peter  was  accustomed  to  and  loved.  Was 
it  possible  that  he  had  scarcely  known  Shaun  a  few  hours 
.ago?  Surely  there  was  never  a  time  when  he  did  not 
know  and  love  this  friend. 


THE  WINGS  OF  YOUTH  143 

"You've  been  frightfully  decent  to  me,"  he  said,  im- 
pulsively, at  the  street  door. 

''I  believe  I  have  ..."  said  Shaun.  "You'll  need 
kindness  before  you  are  through  with  things,  young 
Peter.  You've  a  hard  row  to  hoe."  He  was  silent  a 
moment,  and  added  with  gravity,  "If  Cynthia  has  begun 
to  care  for  you  I  should  have  wronged  her  by  acting 
otherwise.  That  is  what  my  knowledge  of  humanity  and 
my  religion  tell  me,  and  I  care  not  sixpence  for  any  one 
else's." 

"You  still  think  she  does?"  said  Peter,  a  tide  of 
happiness  rising  in  him. 

"I  do." 

The  tide  reached  its  height.  Youth  triumphed.  In 
all  the  world  there  could  not  be  more  joy  than  was 
rioting  in  Peter. 

"Yes,"  went  on  Shaun,  his  fingers  on  the  handle  of 
the  door,  face  in  shadow.  "But  she'd  have  married  me 
out  of  pity,  in  the  long  run;  and  your  Chief  several 
times  came  near  to  controlling  her ! ' ' 

' '  Laurence  Man ! ' '  repeated  Peter,  in  horror. 

Shaun  laughed.  "You  don't  know  how  comparatively 
easy  it  is  to  get  a  certain  influence  over  a  sheltered  girl. 
Cynthia's  human,  has  weaknesses,  little  faults  of  vanity, 
and  she  is  not  unpassionate,  which  you  may  thank 
Heaven  for!  The  ladies  are  very  real,  Peter,  different 
from  men  and  yet  oddly  similar;  better  in  some  ways, 
falling  short  in  others.  They  wear  no  halo,  nor  does 
their  womanhood  give  them  any  knowledge  that  the 
artist  has  not  got.  Love  Cynthia  and  make  a  comrade 
of  her.  Worship  no  one  but  God.  That's  my  advice  to 
you.  And  Peter !  Though  she  may  love  you,  remember 
you  may  not  find  it  easy  to  convince  her  of  it.  Good 
night!"  He  drew  back  and  closed  the  door. 

Next  day  in  the  afternoon  Peter  received  a  post-card 
which  said :  Returns  fortnight.  Come  soon,  take  counsel. 
It  was  signed  S.  J. 


XVI 

DURING  the  weeks  that  followed  Peter's  departure 
Cynthia  had  not  once  given  herself  to  introspection.  She 
had  been  mountain-climbing  in  Wales;  and  healthy  fa- 
tigue in  the  evening  and  very  early  rising  in  the  morning 
helped  her  to  postpone  the  reckoning  which  she  knew 
she  must  eventually  have  with  herself.  Her  last  impres- 
sion at  Tintagel,  which  she  had  left  soon  after  Peter,  was 
the  consciousness  of  being  virginally  shy  of  the  whole 
race  of  men.  She  felt  herself  in  flight  from  these  hunt- 
ers, and  took  refuge  in  a  household  of  girls  with  a  sensa- 
tion of  positive  relief.  Laurence  was  the  trapper  and 
tamer,  even  Shaun  wished  to  put  friendship  in  a  cage. 
Peter  she  would  not  consider,  although  it  was  he  before 
whom  her  spirit  fled,  he  who  had  made  the  wild  part  of 
her  nature  know  that  one  day  it  would  submit.  She 
had  trusted  unaware  to  her  maiden  fleetness;  and  had 
he  approached  in  the  interval  while  she  was  quivering 
with  the  first  apprehension  of  capture  that  she  had  ever 
felt,  it  would  have  been  the  worse  for  him,  for  she  would 
have  turned  and  struck  at  him  blindly. 

But  Peter  did  not  write,  and  in  time  her  mood  re- 
laxed. After  all  he  would  be  a  friend,  and  what  was 
there  better?  He  had  said  he  was  sorry,  and  been  for- 
given. She  need  not  bother  about  analysis  while  Cader 
Idris  remained  to  be  conquered.  Presently  she  began  al- 
most to  resent  his  not  writing.  Phyllis  did  Peter  a  dis- 
service here  by  inquiring  from  an  illegible  address  in 
Norway,  How  is  Peter  Middleton  ?  ' l  The  first  letter  I  've 
had  from  Phyl  in  my  life,"  thought  Cynthia,  flushed 
and  indignant,  ' '  and  if  she  'd  wanted  to  know  she  'd  cer- 
tainly have  asked  him  herself!  I  won't  be  teased  by 

144 


THE  WINGS  OF  YOUTH  145 

Phyllis  Peto!"  Her  hostesses  found  her  in  a  prickly 
mood  that  day,  and  at  night  she  made  a  tour  of  all  their 
bedrooms  to  beg  for  pardon. 

The  beginning  of  September  found  Cynthia  back  in 
London,  waiting  for  her  mother,  whom  she  was  to  take 
to  Brittany.  Lady  Bremner  lingered  in  the  north  a 
week  after  the  date  she  was  due  to  come  home;  and 
Cynthia,  who  had  not  informed  Shaun  of  the  shortness  of 
her  stay,  partly  because  she  took  it  for  granted  that  he 
would  telephone  on  her  arrival,  partly  because  she  would 
not  be  sorry  if  she  missed  him,  received  the  announcement 
of  his  name  on  a  Sunday  afternoon  with  mixed  emotions. 
"  I  do  hope  he  won 't  want  to  discuss  Peter, ' '  flashed  into 
her  mind  as  she  rose,  and  was  lost  in  the  gladness  of 
seeing  him;  but  the  sight  of  Peter  behind  was  a  shock 
and  she  believed  with  vexation  that  she  had  turned 
white  and  stared.  "  Jackson  did  not  announce  you, 
Peter, ' '  she  said,  smiling,  ' '  but  you  are  very  welcome ! ' ' 

' '  My  fault, ' '  said  Shaun.  * '  I  told  her,  '  Oh,  if  you  say 
Mr.  James!'  She's  new,  isn't  she?" 

His  eyes  had  dwelt  for  a  moment  on  her  face.  ' '  Oh, 
Shaun!"  she  thought  reproachfully,  guessing  the  trap 
he  had  set  for  her. 

' '  Yes,  she 's  new,  and  a  good  parlourmaid.  Don 't  you 
think  she 's  pretty,  Peter  ? ' ' — ' '  Cynthia,  you  cat ! ' '  being 
her  internal  comment  on  Peter's  look  of  surprise. 

"I  suppose  she  is,"  he  replied,  simply.  "I  didn't 
notice." 

Shaun  would  have  liked  to  add,  "And  Middleton 
doesn  't  generally  fail  to  observe  charm  or  beauty, ' '  but 
he  knew  Cynthia  and  did  not  underrate  her  cleverness. 
She  was  looking  faintly  puzzled,  which  probably  meant 
that  she  was  not.  "A  person  in  a  canary-coloured  tail 
coat  with  brass  buttons  and  a  very  fine  maroon  waist- 
coat left  this  parcel  at  my  rooms  the  other  day,"  he 
said.  She  had  not  noticed  that  he  was  carrying  any- 
thing in  his  hand. 

"Please  sit  down.  ...  It's  Laurence  Man's  writing, 
Shaun!" 

"What  I  expected!"  said  Shaun,  continuing  coolly, 


146  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

"Rather  a  neat  dodge  sending  his  stuff  by  me,  Cynthia. 
Are  you  impressed  by  his  supersubtle  tact?"  ("I  don't 
think  that's  in  too  bad  taste  for  me,"  he  thought. 
"Peter  can  be  relied  on  to  feel  uncomfortable.  If  only 
he  '11  look  it,  they  '11  be  united  against  me ;  and  also  he  '11 
get  a  chance  to  show  his  loyalty.") 

He  did.  Cynthia  was  angry.  "Peter  doesn't  under- 
stand," she  said.  "It  isn't  fair  to  him.  You  oughtn't 
to  talk  secrets  before  Peter."  Shaun  thought  sadly, 
"She  likes  calling  him  by  his  name.  I've  never  heard 
her  say  'Shaun'  in  just  that  tone." 

' '  James  can 't  say  anything  wrong, ' '  said  Peter.  ' '  Es- 
pecially if  it's  against  Laurence  Man." 

' '  A  dear  boy ! ' '  commented  Shaun,  aloud.  ' '  He  really 
means  it.  Peter  is  the  only  living  individual  who  has 
called  on  an  author  in  his  den  without  going  away 
disillusioned.  The  Orpen  dazzled  him,  Cynthia.  And 
here  comes  tea." 

Peter  took  his  leave  early ;  '  soon  enough  to  be  missed ' 
had  been  his  instructions,  which  he  interpreted  modestly. 
When  they  were  left  alone,  "It's  good  to  see  you  back," 
said  Shaun  to  Cynthia.  His  tone  was  not  that  of  a 
lover,  which  rejoiced  her.  She  wondered  whether  it  was 
due  to  the  death  of  his  mother,  guessing  near  to  the 
truth  without  divining  it  exactly.  "If  you  had  not 
been  in  time  to  see  her  before  she  died,"  she  said  with 
sudden  emotion,  "I  should  have  hated  myself  for 
ever!  It  was  horrible  of  me  to  bring  you  away  just 
then." 

"Don't,  dear!  If  I'd  arrived  sooner,  Mother  and 
I  would  only  have  quarrelled.  It  sounds  a  brutal  thing 
to  say,  but  it's  probably  the  truth,  and  God  knows  I 
say  it  without  the  smallest  feeling  of  bitterness.  Hadn  't 
Laurence  Man  your  address,  or  is  this  a  touching  proof 
of  his  absence  of  jealousy,  as  I  suggested?" 

"Both,  I  daresay,"  replied  Cynthia,  carelessly. 
"That's  all  right,"  thought  Shaun,  and  questioned  her 
about  the  books  she  had  been  reading.  They  were 
few. 

"Your  losing  of  my  firstborn  on  Cader  Idris  is  what 


THE  WINGS  OF  YOUTH  147 

Joyce  would  call  '  a  bit  thick, '  "  he  said.  ' '  Is  it  an  easy 
mountain,  Cynthia?" 

"Not  the  way  we  went!  We  were  out  for  rock- 
climbing.  They  are  awfully  sporting  girls." 

He  had  scarcely  listened  and  now  he  rose  to  depart. 
"One  way  or  the  other  you  won't  find  Peter  Middle- 
ton  worry  you,"  he  assured  her  with  intentional  vague- 
ness. "He  seems  to  me  a  reliable  boy,  and  I've  grown 
to  like  him.  You  did  not  mind  my  bringing  him,  did 
you?  The  irony  of  it  appealed  to  me,  and  you  said 
you'd  forgiven  him." 

Blue  eyes  met  grey;  and  the  grey  were  sweet  and 
clouded,  but  the  gaze  of  the  blue  was  clear. 

"It  wasn't  .  .  .  curiosity?"  asked  Cynthia. 


XVII 

THE  parcel  from  Laurence  Man  proved  to  contain  a 
Guide  to  the  Employments  of  Women,  a  handbook  on 
nursing,  one  on  the  medical  profession,  the  prospectus 
of  a  College  of  Physical  Education  where  'gym- 
mistresses'  were  trained,  details  of  the  Cambridge 
Mathematical  Tripos,  a  Civil  Service  Year-book,  the 
syllabus  of  the  Royal  Academy  of  Music  and  that  of 
a  dramatic  school.  A  letter  enclosed  stated  that  the 
writer  thought  it  safest  to  send  'through  Mr.  James' 
as  he  did  not  know  Miss  Bremner's  address,  and  if 
she  would  mention  the  volumes  which  interested  her 
he  would  at  once  obtain  'inside  information  as  well  as 
full  particulars. '  /  can  give  an  introduction  to  a  society 
milliner  and  to  the  woman  business  manager  of  a  large 
concern,  and  to  a  woman  secretary,  wrote  Laurence,  but 
I  must  say  that  I  think  only  the  latter  would  interest 
you.  Does  not  your  father  need  a  secretary?  If  you 
did  a  little  work  now  and  again  for  him,  it  would 
help  you  to  discover  where  your  tastes  lay. 

' '  I  see  Daddy  letting  me ! "  murmured  Cynthia.  She 
despatched  a  brief  note  of  thanks,  threw  aside  the 
Medical  book,  skimmed  the  handbook  on  Nursing  and 
rejected  it,  read  about  the  Physical  Training  College 
with  the  deepest  interest  and  packed  that  prospectus 
and  the  Civil  Service  Tear-book  very  carefully  for 
Brittany.  She  was  fully  informed  in  regard  to  Cam- 
bridge and  it  had  been  settled  once  and  for  all  that 
she  was  not  to  go.  The  Guide  she  put  away.  The 
other  two  brochures  she  hovered  over  with  bright  eyes 
and  parted  lips.  Shaun  had  told  her  that  with  a  voice 
like  hers  she  ought  to  study  recitation  to  music,  but 
had  added  that  it  was  a  false  art;  and  people  had 

148 


THE  WINGS  OF  YOUTH  149 

praised  her  acting  in  amateur  shows,  which,  meant  that 
she  had  spoken  distinctly  and  worn  pretty  clothes. 
One  syllabus  fell  on  the  discarded  pile.  As  for  music! 
No,  she  did  not  feel  the  impulse.  It  was  a  pity,  since 
those  two  suggested  possibilities  of  romance. 

Brittany,  with  Mummy  to  take  about,  was  almost 
dull.  Cynthia,  being  devoted  to  her  mother,  blamed 
Brittany.  Peter  did  not  write,  ("I  wonder  why!")  and 
Shaun,  whilst  praising  him  'from  a  man's  point  of 
view,'  which  was  good  hearing,  for  Cynthia  was  wise 
enough  to  value  precisely  that  attitude,  depreciated 
poor  Peter 's  intelligence.  Really !  She  could  not  pre- 
tend that  Peter  was  a  genius — there  was  still  no  one 
in  the  world  like  Shaun — but  he  was  much  cleverer  than 
Shaun  appeared  to  think !  He  was  rather  silent,  and  did 
not  do  himself  justice  until  you  knew  him  well.  She 
wrote  a  special  letter  to  explain  this  in  a  postscript, 
and  caused  Shaun  to  smile  an  odd  smile.  He  hoped 
that  she  was  not  going  to  lose  her  fine  acuteness  when 
she  fell  in  love!  There  was  nothing  to  complain  of  in 
her  representation  of  Peter,  which  was  masterly  and 
fair,  altogether  worthy  of  her  teacher.  It  was  too  fair 
to  be  shown  to  Peter,  who  might  have  been  discouraged. 

From  a  long  grey  vista  stretching  down  the  years 
life  had  suddenly  changed  for  Peter  to  a  broad  and 
winding  high-road  with  something  interesting  round 
every  corner  and  beautiful  prospects  over  its  gay  hedges. 
He  was  learning  day  by  day,  qualifying  himself  to  be 
loved  by  Cynthia.  The  ingenious  tuition  of  his  new 
friend  brought  him  a  rapture  such  as  only  the  solitary 
can  understand. 

"Nothing  more  about  your  handwriting?"  Shaun 
asked,  on  one  occasion. 

"No,  thank  goodness,"  answered  Peter.  "But  a  man 
I  rather  like  has  had  his  rise  stopped." 

"You  never  talk  of  your  chums  in  there.  I  suppose 
they  live  too  far  out  for  you  to  see  much  of  them?" 

"Yes,  and  we're  all  a  bit  shy  of  one  another.  You 
never  know  whom  you  can  trust.  That's  the  feeling 
even  when  you  think  the  man  is  straight  enough.  And 


150  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

one  wants  to  forget  the  Company.  Did  that  mean  you 
were  bored,  Shaun?" 

"No." 

"And  such  a  lot  of  the  chaps  want  to  go  'up  west,' 
unless  one  plays  tennis  at  their  own  club,  which  is 
generally  out  in  the  suburbs,  you  see." 

"  'Up  west.'  I  turn  to  the  left  to  reach  'up  west,' 
I  suppose!  Does  Leicester  Square  intrigue  you, 
Peter?" 

"It's  different!"  said  Peter,  thinking.  "Yes,  I  sup- 
pose in  a  way  it's  interesting." 

"And  in  the  obvious  way?" 

"They  don't  seem  human  to  me.  And  I'd  be  too 
frightfully  sorry  for  them.  No,  as  long  as  I  keep  fit, 
which  isn't  difficult  even  in  town,  I'm  not  much  bothered. 
I  always  have  managed  to  keep  fit  somehow." 

"Writers  are  worst  off  that  way.  They  train  their 
imaginations  to  be  vivid.  Damned  uncomfortable  thing 
to  be,  an  artist!  When  B.  Shaw  has  his  way  and  so- 
cialism makes  us  all  happy  and  glorious,  perhaps  the 
artistic  temperament  will  get  its  own  back.  A  drunken 
man  stopped  me  in  Wardour  Street  the  other  day  and 
said,  "Wha'  kindovartisht  are  you,  you  shtraw-haired 
blackguard?'  'Writer,'  I  answered.  'Shall  I  stop  that 
taxi  for  you  and  start  you  home?'  'No.  And  I  won't 
ashk  you  t'  come  an'  haveadrink!  You  ruddy  shports 
can  alwaysh  feel  asthoughsh  you  were  tight!'  Some- 
thing in  it,  too.  Chuck  over  the  matches,  Peter,  there's 
a  dear!" 

At  this  stage  in  Peter's  career  a  conversation  in  which 
he  shared  did  not  remain  desultory  long.  "I  say!"  he 
remarked,  after  handing  what  Shaun  had  asked  for, 
"did  I  ever  tell  you  about  Eric?" 

"The  book  was  not  wholly  grievous.  Who  is  your 
Eric?" 

Eric  was  a  she,  a  pretty  tea-shop  girl  whom  Peter  had 
admired  at  a  distance  for  several  romantic  months, 
about  a  year  ago.  She  had  apparently  departed  into 
pantomime,  whither  he  had  not  followed  her. 

These  were  the  moments  when  Shaun  could  not  help 


THE  WINGS  OF  YOUTH  151 

feeling  amused.  "You  never  spoke  to  her  then,  except 
to  give  an  order?" 

"No,"  said  Peter.  "I  say,  don't  laugh  at  me,  Shaun. 
It'll  dry  me  up  for  ever  if  you  do." 

"I'm  not,  old  chap.  I'm  grinning  at  my  own  self, 
who  was  once  equally  shy.  For  goodness'  sake,  don't 
tell  Cynthia  now.  Not  for  years.  A  girl  brought  up 
as  she  has  been  would  not  readily  understand,  and  you 
are  a  vile  explainer !  She 's  not  the  type  to  fall  in  love 
with  a  chauffeur  at  any  stage  of  her  youth.  The  story 
you  tell  me  is  of  truly  pathetic  loneliness,  and  you  make 
it  a  confession.  Wait  until  you  are  forty. ' ' 

Shaun  was  educating  Peter,  much  in  the  same  way 
that  he  had  educated  Cynthia,  and  the  irony  of  this  was 
his  constant  reward. 

One  night  while  they  were  drinking  beer  in  a  tavern 
in  Holborn  after  the  theatre  he  observed  Peter  regarding 
him  with  a  certain  shy  wonder.  Sensitive  to  anything 
approaching  criticism  from  a  friend,  he  promptly  in- 
quired :  ' '  What  is  it  ?  You  're  comparing  me  with  some- 
body. I  know  I'm  not  clever  like  Shaw." 

* '  You  don 't  talk  as  splendidly  as  you  write, ' '  confessed 
Peter. 

"Splendid  is  the  wrong  epithet,"  said  Shaun,  ap- 
peased. ' '  I  can  say  a  few  simple  things  kindly  and  carve 
out  some  beautiful  prose  by  dint  of  furious  and  incessant 
labour.  That's  Shaun  James  the  novelist.  I  was  a 
fluent  journalist,  if  you  like ;  but,  thank  God,  those  days 
are  over." 

Peter  developed  with  such  rapidity  that,  only  a  short 
time  before  Cynthia's  return  for  the  winter,  when  he 
said  reflectively  tl\at  he  wished  he  could  generalise  about 
women  Shaun  was  able  to  bid  him,  "Start  now.  It's 
your  last  chance."  .  .  .  "You're  beginning  to  under- 
stand them,"  he  aded  in  reply  to  Peter's  look  of  inter- 
rogation. "Understanding  is  death  to  generalities.  .  .  . 
What  are  you  going  to  do  about  it,  Peter?  I've  never 
asked  you  before;  but  I  must  now  that  she's  coming 
back."  They  were  at  Hammersmith,  in  Peter's  sitting- 
room.  Before  answering  Peter  glanced  at  the  photo- 


152  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

graphs  on  the  mantelpiece.  Then :  ' '  I  'm  going  straight 
on,"  said  he,  "and  I  shall  do  the  best  I  can." 

"Very  well.  Call  soon,  and  make  no  love.  Let  her 
wonder  why  you  do  not."  Peter  shook  his  head  and 
smiled, — very  attractively. 

"  I  '11  try, ' '  he  said.    "  It 's  not  easy,  Shaun ! ' ' 

"Oh,  I  know.  Keep  out  of  the  light  when  Alan 
Bremner  is  around." 

Peter  frowned.  "He  was  jolly  decent  to  me,"  he 
said,  slowly. 

"Well,  if  you  wish  him  to  go  on  being  it,  don't  let 
him  think  you  are  in  love  with  his  sister.  Face  facts, 
Peter.  Bremner  would  think  me  a  blackguard  for  en- 
couraging you,  and  would  tell  you  that  you  were  taking 
a  mean  advantage  of  his  father's  hospitality.  Both  state- 
ments would  have  truth  in  them!" 

' '  You  haven 't  been  a  blackguard ! ' ' 

"  So  I  think.  From  my  point  of  view  I  've  been  help- 
ing to  make  the  best  of  a  job  that  is  bound  to  turn  out 
badly  for  the  Bremner  family,  however  it  results  for 
Cynthia  personally.  At  the  best  I  do  not  expect  to 
retain  their  esteem — their  liking  I  haven't  already.  At 
the  worst,  I  shall  forfeit  Cynthia's.  Be  prepared  for 
trouble,  as  I  am;  and  for  the  Lord's  sake  don't  be  too 
proud  to  step  out  of  the  way  to  avoid  it,  either  at  the 
Office  or  in  Portman  Square ! ' ' 

Peter  had  to  admit  the  good  sense  of  this,  and  while 
he  was  doing  so  the  postman  knocked.  He  ran  down- 
stairs and  received  two  letters,  which  he  read  going  up. 
One  was  from  Phyllis  and  it  told  how  she  had  smoked 
an  enormous  cigar  in  her  bedroom,  which  had  not  made 
her  feel  in  the  least  queer,  and  so  she  gave  herself  a  new 
dinner-frock  as  a  reward.  "A  fine  old  smell  of  cigar- 
smoke  there  must  have  been  afterwards, ' '  thought  Peter. 
' '  Is  she  with  the  Bremners  ? ' '  No,  the  address  was  near 
Weybridge.  The  other  letter  was  an  invitation  from 
Lady  Bremner  to  dine  quietly  in  a  fortnight's  time.  He 
showed  this  one  to  Shaun. 

"Something's  up!  It's  long  notice  for  a  family  din- 
ner, ' '  said  the  novelist.  ' '  I  bet  sixpence  I  haven 't  one  of 


THE  WINGS  OF  YOUTH  153 

these  at  home,  Peter.  It  strikes  me  that  somebody  in  the 
house  wants  to  make  sure  of  a  talk  with  you.  A  friendly 
talk  undoubtedly.  No,  not  Cynthia.  .  .  .  Hang  Sherlock 
Holmes!  The  man  was  a  fraud.  There  are  at  least 
five  possibilities  here. ' ' 

".  .  .  What  do  you  think?" 

"Oh,  were  you  waiting?  It's  real  life,  my  son.  I 
I  won't  hazard  any  guesses." 


XVIII 

SHAUN  was  right ;  Cynthia  had  not  suggested  an  invita- 
tion to  Peter.  She  would  have  liked  to  do  so  but  hung 
back  for  a  reason  which  was  obscure  to  herself ;  certainly 
not  because  she  feared  she  would  be  misunderstood. 
And  when  she  heard  he  had  been  asked  she  hastily  pro- 
posed that  Shaun  should  be  invited  as  well. 

"I  do  not  think  we  want  to  see  Mr.  James  again  so 
soon,"  said  her  mother,  with  downcast  eyes.  Cynthia 
knew  better  than  to  persist. 

She  remained  a  long  time  undecided  what  to  wear 
when  Peter  came.  In  the  intervals  between  shopping 
the  problem  was  constantly  in  her  mind.  It  was  neces- 
sary to  decide  before  the  day  because  Marie  must  not 
be  kept  waiting  nor  must  she  be  allowed  to  think  the 
decision  of  any  importance.  It  was  not  important ;  only 
the  more  you  thought  about  clothes  the  more  puzzling 
they  were,  and  she  liked  to  look  nice  when  meeting 
anyone  again  after  a  long  time.  "When  those  two  arrived 
unexpectedly  that  Sunday  she  was  in  rags,  which  must 
not  occur  again. 

It  was  to  be  a  family  dinner,  so  she  could  not  wear 
either  of  the  lovely  evening  dresses  which  Mummy  had 
given  her  in  Paris,  where  they  had  spent  their  last  week 
away.  No,  it  was  regrettable !  She  finally  decided  upon 
the  green  frock  which  she  had  worn  on  her  first  meeting 
with  Peter. 

This  time  she  was  the  last  to  descend.  "He  seems 
taller  than  ever,  and  older, ' '  she  thought.  Alan  noticed 
that  she  coloured  as  she  entered  the  room,  and  that  her 
eyes  were  very  bright.  "Sis  looks  a  remarkably  pretty 
girl  to-night!"  he  approved. 

154 


THE  WINGS  OF  YOFTH  155 

"Rose!"  he  said,  aloud. 

Cynthia  started.  She  had  greeted  Peter  who  was 
talking  to  Lady  Bremner,  and  was  standing  aside,  grace- 
ful head  bent. 

' '  Dad  is  waiting  to  take  you  in. ' ' 

Sir  Everard  was  eyeing  her  severely.  She  hastened  to 
take  his  arm.  "There's  nothing  new  about  this  room, 
is  there?"  asked  Alan.  "It  still  looks  to  me  uncom- 
monly like  a  showroom  at  Harrod's." 

He  had  succeeded  in  diverting  his  father's  attention. 
' '  Your  Mother  likes  it, ' '  Sir  Everard  said  to  Cynthia  as 
they  entered  the  dining-room. 

"She  would  have  liked  it  better  still  if  she  had  only 
let  Shaun  do  it,"  retorted  Cynthia,  as  she  took  her  seat 
and  untwisted  her  napkin.  The  decoration  of  the  big 
drawing-room  was  an  old  grievance.  Lady  Bremner 
had  carried  it  through  in  great  haste  in  order  that  Shaun 
might  not  be  called  in  for  'endless  consultations.' 

Sir  Everard  frowned,  and  addressed  Peter  blandly. 
' '  James ! ' '  thought  Alan.  ' '  I  suppose  Mother  would  not 
ask  him.  That  accounts  for  Sis.  Poor  kid !  It 's  rather 
rough  on  her  after  all."  He  laid  himself  out  to  be  nice 
to  her  during  the  remainder  of  the  meal.  All  her  family 
had  somewhat  guilty  consciences  in  regard  to  Rosemary 
to-night,  and  they  encouraged  her  to  talk  to  Peter,  who 
appeared  doggedly  determined  to  keep  the  conversation 
general.  Cynthia  made  shy  efforts  to  approach  him,  but 
in  vain.  "Can  those  two  have  quarrelled?"  wondered 
Alan.  "Sis  seems  willing  to  strike  the  pathetic  note!" 
He  decided  they  had  nothing  to  quarrel  about.  The 
truth  was  that  Peter,  racked  by  scruples,  had  resolved 
that  in  no  circumstances  whatever  could  he  possibly  be 
more  than  civil  to  Cynthia  in  her  father's  house.  Hon- 
our was  causing  him  to  behave  with  the  deepest  policy, 
and  the  consequent  circle  of  misunderstandings  round 
the  dining-table  would  have  given  Shaun  enjoyment  for 
a  week. 

In  the  drawing-room  Lady  Bremner  again  took  pos- 
session of  Peter,  sending  Rosemary  to  the  piano — ' '  Men- 
delssohn, please  darling ! ' ' — and  he  soon  realised  that  he 


156  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

was  being  consulted,  very  diplomatically  and  cautiously, 
in  regard  to  the  influence  of  Shaun  upon  the  dear  child. 
' '  She  is  a  little  inclined  to  hero-worship,  Peter ! ' '  Peter 
had  once  thought  so  himself.  He  forgot  he  had  gone  so 
far  as  to  tackle  Shaun  on  the  subject,  and  at  once  became 
all  loyal  indignation.  He  had  sense  enough,  however,  to 
remain  silent. 

Lady  Bremner  had  not  invited  him  for  a  specific  pur- 
pose in  order  to  be  baulked  of  it.  She  decided  on  a  direct 
question,  pleased  by  his  obvious  wrath  at  Mr.  James's 
misdoings.  "We  like  you  and  we  trust  you,  Peter.  I 
am  sure  you  will  forgive  my  asking  if  you  think  Mr. 
James  has  any  idea  of  proposing  to  Rosemary.  Alan 
thinks  he  has  not ;  and  of  course  we  all  hope  not. ' ' 

Peter  felt  on  hot  coals.  ' '  I  agree  with  Alan, ' '  he  said. 
The  moment  he  had  spoken  he  understood  that  he  had 
chosen  his  phrase  unwisely,  for  Alan  had  probably  ac- 
cused Shaun  of  playing  fast  and  loose. 

' '  Yet  we  cannot  help  being  afraid  that  she  may  never 
marry  while  his  influence  remains,"  sighed  the  mother. 

Peter  was  too  nearly  involved  to  enjoy  the  comedy  of 
this,  or  of  his  own  fervent  reply,  "I  don't  think  that, 
Lady  Bremner.  Honestly!" 

Lady  Bremner  looked  at  him  with  a  slight  smile.  She 
had  very  pretty  white  teeth  like  Cynthia's.  Thus 
thought  innocent  Peter,  unaware  that  she  was  engaged 
in  readjusting  all  her  ideas  of  him.  "Do  you  like  Mr. 
James  yourself?"  she  inquired,  knowing  now  what  his 
answer  would  be.  It  was  a  warm  one,  and  the  conversa- 
tion promptly  closed.  The  evening  seemed  to  close  with 
it,  and  Peter  took  an  early  leave. 

Shaun 's  frank  comment  was,  ' '  You  idot !  You  should 
have  denied  me."  He  wrote  a  full  account  to  Cynthia, 
as  soon  as  Peter  had  started  homeward.  Next  day  a 
district  messenger  boy  brought  the  following : 

Dear  Shaun, 

I  think  Peter  behaved  very  nicely.  Why  do  you 
run  him  down  if  he  is  your  friend?  /  cannot  agree  that 
he  ought  to  have  stopped  Mother  at  the  beginning. 


THE  WINGS  OF  YOUTH  157 

I'm  afraid  you  are  right  and  that  Mr.  Man  has  "been 
making  mischief.  I  am  almost  inclined  to  hate  him. 
Now  Peter  won't  be  able  to  come  to  see  me  either,  if 
Mother  has  made  up  her  mind  to  eliminate  you.  I'm 
not  sure  that  he'll  care  very  much,  but  I  miss  my  friends. 
It  is  a  tiresome  world. 

Yours, 

Cynthia. 

P.S. — Would  you  approve  if  I  became  a  physical  train- 
ing teacher  f 

Shaun  wrote  back,  A  physical  training  teacher  should 
be  one  of  the  noblest  creatures  on  God's  earth  and  is 
usually  a  schoolmistress,  and  sometimes  a  suffragette. 
Still  you  have  my  blessing,  Cynthia.  If  you  think  you 
can  escape  the  dangers,  go  ahead  and  prosper.  But  be- 
fore this  reached  its  destination  there  had  been  a  crisis 
at  Portman  Square. 

A  visit  from  Lady  Bremner  at  hair-brushing  time 
meant  a  consultation  or  a  rebuke  that  must  be  delivered 
tactfully.  "Come  in,  Mummy!"  Scandals  such  as 
Phyllis 's  bare  legs  at  Tintagel  were  dealt  with  later  when 
the  culprit  was  recumbent  in  bed  and  at  a  disadvantage. 
However,  Cynthia  stiffened  her  courage  when  she  heard 
her  mother's  knock.  She  did  not  intend  to  be  attacked 
indirectly,  and  for  once — almost  the  first  time  in  her  life 
— she  meant  to  carry  the  war  into  the  enemy 's  country. 

Lady  Bremner,  opening  the  door,  beheld  the  dainty 
scene  which  always  softened  her  maternal  heart  were  she 
never  so  determined  upon  severity.  The  standard  elec- 
tric lamp  which  had  just  been  installed  was  shaded,  and 
the  blue  and  white  apartment  was  full  of  soft  lights, 
thrown  downward  about  the  girlish  figure  of  Cynthia, 
who  was  seated  in  front  of  the  tall  cheval  glass,  brushing 
away  with  lithe,  quick  movements  now  to  one  side,  now, 
after  a  toss  of  the  head,  to  the  other.  Gold  gleamed  in 
the  white  of  her  muslin  dressing-jacket.  The  edging  of 
the  loose  sleeve  which  fell  from  her  white,  lovely  arm  was 
gold.  Her  hair  glinted  with  sunny  lights  all  down  its 


158  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

length  of  crinkling,  chestnut-brown  glory.  The  glass  re- 
flected a  flash  of  grey  eyes  now  and  again,  veiled  immedi- 
ately by  long  lashes,  but  the  straight  young  back  re- 
mained obstinately  turned  to  the  watcher,  and  Lady 
Bremner  thought  she  read  indignation  or  defiance  in  the 
young  shoulders  as  they  squared  for  an  instant  during  a 
pause  in  the  brushing.  But  before  this  she  had  ex- 
claimed, "Darling,  I  have  never  seen  such  hair!  It 
seems  to  grow  thicker  and  longer  every  month. ' ' 

"You've  been  looking  at  the  'Koko'  advertisements, 
Mother,"  answered  a  clear  voice  with  a  note  of  sullen- 
ness  in  it,  which  vanished  as  the  speaker  added,  "I  think 
the  colour  is  better  than  it  used  to  be." 

Lady  Bremner  stood  where  she  was,  answering  mechan- 
ically, "I  have  always  admired  it."  She  wondered 
whether  to  withdraw  since  the  child  was  in  one  of  her 
queer  moods,  and  reminded  herself  that  the  best  of 
daughters  has  fits  of  ill  humour;  but  relying  on  Cyn- 
thia's habitual  equanimity  reasserting  itself,  as  the  last 
speech  implied  that  it  was  doing,  she  made  up  her  mind 
to  advance,  and  perched  herself  on  the  edge  of  the  bed. 

' '  Everyone  takes  it  for  granted  I  'm  sweet-tempered ! ' ' 
thought  the  girl.  "I'm  not!  I'll  show  Mother  in  a 
minute.  One  feels  so  helpless  somehow  with  one's  hair 
streaming  all  over  the  place. ' '  She  was  already  making 
excuses  to  herself  for  failure. 

Now  she  divided  her  mane  and  began  to  braid.  ' '  I  see 
you've  been  taking  care  of  your  complexion,"  said  the 
toother,  approvingly.  "A  girl  who's  lucky  enough  to 
have  a  skin  like  yours  cannot  be  too  careful. ' ' 

"I  haven't,  Mother!"  declared  Cynthia.  "I'm 
fcshamed  to  say  it  has  been  taking  care  of  itself  the  whole 
ttimmer. ' ' 

"It's  wonderful.  Oh,  then  didn't  you  use  that  cream 
t  sent  you  at  Ynys-Gawr  ? ' ' 

"  I  'm  sorry.  No,  I  lost  the  stuff.  And  we  had  scarcely 
uny  sun  in  Brittany."  "Why  do  I  hesitate?"  Cynthia 
Vas  asking  herself.  "Why  don't  I  tackle  her?"  She 
stole  a  glance,  but  her  mother  was  meditating,  a  peaceful 
expression  on  her  face,  almost  a  smile.  "Dear  old 


THE  WINGS  OF  YOUTH  159 

Mummy!"  said  Cynthia,  aloud.  Lady  Bremner  rocked 
herself  gently,  smiling  openly.  She  was  glad  of  this 
lovely  young  thing's  affection,  though  it  did  not  count 
with  her  compared  with  her  husband 's. 

"Put  back  your  jacket,  Rosemary  child,"  she  said. 
"Push  it  back.  So!  Your  shoulders  are  just  as  they 
should  be,  dear!  You  look  charmingly  pretty  so.  You 
know  I  think  we  ought  to  have  those  wide  shoulder-straps 
on  the  blue  changed  to  pearls,  after  all." 

"It  might  make  me  feel  rather  undressed,"  objected 
Cynthia,  doubtfully,  "until  I  got  accustomed  to  the 
gown."  Her  face  clouded.  "Mummy,  shoulders  can't 
be  pretty.  Shaun  says  they  are  either  beautiful  or  not 
beautiful  and  there 's  an  end  of  it. ' ' 

"I  trust  there  is,"  Lady  Bremner  could  not  help  re- 
marking, and  having  begun  she  decided  to  go  on,  in  spite 
of  the  unpropitiousness  of  the  opening.  "Your  Father 
and  I  and  Alan  would  all  like  you  to  see  less  of  Mr. 
James  in  the  future,  Rosemary. ' ' 

Cynthia  readjusted  the  dressing-jacket,  pulled  her 
braids  in  front  of  her,  and  leaned  back  deliberately  in 
her  low  chair.  "Perhaps  Laurence  Man  has  suggested 
that  he  is  a  bad  companion  for  me  ? ' ' 

"The  three  of  us — your  family,  darling — dislike  him. 
The  idea  of  a  middle-aged  widower,  poor  and  eccentric, 
monopolising  you  to  the  exclusion  of  other  friends  is  not 
nice.  Surely  you  can  see  this." 

"Shaun  is  forty.  He's  distinguished,  not  eccentric. 
I'm  sorry  to  contradict,  but  he  doesn't  monopolise  me, 
Mother.  He  encouraged  me  to  be  friends  with  Peter 
Middleton " 

"And  I  approved  of  Peter  as  your  friend,"  inter- 
rupted Lady  Bremner,  "until  he  also  fell  under  the 
fascination  of  Mr.  James." 

"I  don't  see  what  anybody  could  object  to  in  Peter! 
And  I  don't  believe  Daddy  is  really  against  Shaun.  I 
shall  ...  I  shall  tell  Alan  to  mind  his  own  business! 
What  about  Miss  Taliesin,  I  should  like  to  know?  He 
has  compromised  her  far  more  than  Shaun  ever  did  me. ' ' 

"No  one  has  hinted,  still  less  spoken,  of  compromise. 


160  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

You  forget  yourself,  Rosemary  darling.  I  should  be 
speaking  very  differently  if  there  were  the  smallest  ques- 
tion of  Mr.  James  having  compromised  you." 

"I'm  sure,  Mum,  that  Laurence  Man  did!"  cried 
Cynthia,  bending  forward. 

"Hush!  You  are  too  loud,  much  too  loud.  No,  he 
did  not,  Rosemary.  He  told  me  he  thought  the  exacting 
friendship  of  Mr.  James  was  a  bar  to  your  marrying,  a 
very  different  thing ! ' ' 

"He  has  done  for  himself,  anyway,"  said  Cynthia, 
bitterly.  ' '  How  thoroughly  impertinent  of  him  to  med- 
dle !  It  was  underhand,  mean ! " 

"It  was  intended  for  your  good." 

"You  haven't  told  Daddy  all  that!"  said  Cynthia, 
leaning  back.  "He  would  make  short  work  of  Mr. 
Laurence  if  he  heard  of  such  underhand  tricks. ' ' 

' '  Rosemary,  you  must  not  say  things  like  that  to  your 
Mother!  Control  yourself." 

"Mummy,  I'm  sorry." 

Cynthia  looked  seventeen  with  her  long,  beribboned 
tresses,  her  wide  eyes  cloudy  with  tears,  her  sad  lips 
trembling,  but  she  felt  eleven  and  in  disgrace.  The 
habit  of  daughterhood  is  not  easy  to  forget.  Lady 
Bremner  did  not  speak,  and  presently  the  girl  managed 
to  conquer  herself.  Bravely,  proudly  she  erected  her 
slender  form,  raised  her  drooping,  ashamed  head  for  a 
last  effort  of  rebellion.  The  brilliance  of  her  beauty 
astonished  her  mother. 

"I've  said  I'm  sorry,  and  I  am,"  she  slowly  pro- 
nounced. "Mother,  don't  let's  fight!  I  can't  be  such  a 
beast  as  to  give  up  Shaun,  and  Daddy  will  see  that,  I  'm 
sure."  Lady  Bremner  had  an  uncomfortable  idea  that 
this  was  true,  so  she  discreetly  kept  silence,  and  Cynthia 
went  on,  encouraged.  "I'm  thinking  of  asking  him  to 
let  me  go  to  a  physical  training  college,  so  that  I  might 
qualify  as  a  games  mistress.  That  would  take  me  out  of 
Shaun 's  way.  I  want  to  be  able  to  do  something  in  the 
world,  to  feel  I  could  get  my  own  living  if  necessary.  I 
want  self-reliance.  Oh,  I  want  such  a  heap  of  things  I 
haven't  got!" 


THE  WINGS  OF  YOUTH  161 

But  the  behaviour  of  Phyllis  had  implanted  a  deep 
dislike  of  gymnastics  in  Lady  Bremner ;  visions  came  to 
her  of  Rosemary  with  her  sweet  limbs  and  body  vilely 
and  ignominiously  contorted  or  with  her  heels  flying  over 
her  head.  "I  am  sure  that  Daddy  would  never  con- 
sent!" she  said,  rising.  "I  wish  to  hear  nothing  more 
of  this,  Rosemary. ' '  Nor  did  a  cool  perusal  of  the  docu- 
ments next  morning  dispel  the  horrid  pictures  thus 
conjured  up.  It  was  clear  that  if  Rosemary  were  not  to 
be  called  upon  to  do  such  unladylike  tricks  herself — 
which  was  far  from  certain — she  would  at  least  be  help- 
ing to  make  it  posible  for  others  to  perform  them.  And 
the  subject  was  closed.  Her  mother  declined  flatly  to 
reopen  it. 


XIX 

DADDY  was  in  the  library,  browsing  amongst  old  sporting 
books  and  early  volumes  of  the  Badminton,  on  a  Sunday 
afternoon.  This  betokened  a  relaxed  mind,  which  his 
Polly,  curled  childishly  in  a  big  chair  with  The  Queen 
and  The  Sphere  on  her  lap,  thought  to  take  advantage 
of;  raising  long  lashes,  she  said,  "Daddy,  do  you  like 
Shaun  James?"  Her  voice  was_ innocent  but  not  frank, 
and  to  herself  it  sounded  tremulous. 

Sir  Everard  lifted  his  head,  with  the  action  of  sniffing. 
Perhaps  he  scented  the  atmosphere  of  feminine  intrigue, 
for  he  answered  curtly:  "I  hear  his  work  praised.  It 
leaves  me  personally  indifferent,"  and  stooped  to  the 
shelf  again. 

The  women  of  the  household  had  learnt  the  seriousness 
of  invoking  an  autocrat,  and  seldom  appealed  to  Sir 
Everard  directly.  Cynthia  knew  herself  courageous  in 
persisting,  ' '  I  meant  the  man,  not  the  books. ' ' 

Her  father  turned  and  directed  on  her  a  stern-eyed 
glance  from  under  shaggy  eyebrows.  He  always  ruffled 
them  backwards  whilst  choosing  a  book,  which  added 
to  the  terror  of  his  aspect.  His  Polly,  however,  was 
looking  so  charming  that  his  frown  vanished,  and  "Why 
haven't  I  the  sense  to  weep  on  his  waistcoat?"  thought 
she,  conscious,  ' '  Phyllis  would,  like  a  shot ! ' '  He  began 
to  speak  with  an  air  of  majesty  that  was  thoroughly  mas- 
culine. Cynthia  giggled  internally  at  the  picture  of 
Peter  talking  like  that, ' '  when  he 's  quite  old ! ' '  She  was 
overstrung,  though  no  signs  of  it  appeared  on  her  face, 
which  was  tender  and  beautiful.  He  ended  a  speech 
of  faint  praise  with  the  words,  "I  am  inclined  to 
respect  him  as  something  more  than  an  amusing  com- 
panion. ' ' 

162 


THE  WINGS  OF  YOUTH  163 

"Then  mayn't  I  ask  him  here?"  said  Cynthia,  start- 
ing up. 

Sir  Everard  looked  at  her  again,  and  said,  suavely, 
"With  your  Mother's  permission  certainly,  Rosemary!" 
He  returned  to  his  books,  and  Cynthia  made  a  stately 
exit. 

This  occurred  a  few  days  after  Lady  Bremner  had 
visited  the  girl's  bedroom,  and  settled  the  question  of 
Shaun,  at  least  for  the  time  being,  without  having 
enabled  Cynthia  to  decide  in  her  own  mind  whether 
Daddy  was  aware  of  Laurence's  treachery.  Not  that  it 
mattered !  She  had  returned  the  handbooks  with  a  chill 
note  of  thanks  and  had  dismissed  their  owner  from  her 
life.  He  was  gone !  He  no  longer  existed.  She  started 
Descartes  to  please  Daddy,  and  studied  him  seriously  to 
please  herself.  From  the  mathematical  treatises  she 
turned  to  the  Disc&urs  de  la  Methode,  and  after  being 
absorbed  in  it  for  a  week  broke  off  to  attend  a  succession 
of  dances  which  left  her  feeling  tired  and  lonely.  One 
thing  was  certain.  She  had  never  since  the  days  at 
Tintagel  contemplated  a  life  without  Peter,  and  it  seemed 
to  be  singularly  empty,  so  she  wrote  to  Shaun  and  made 
a  clandestine  appointment.  Perhaps  he  would  bring 
Peter,  whom  it  would  be  pleasant  to  meet  again. 

Shaun  was  too  wily,  but  he  talked  of  Peter  and  how 
hardly  he  was  treated  by  the  Great  Company  and 
promised  to  recommend  him  to  read  Descartes.  They 
were  at  'Alan's'  in  Oxford  Street.  The  cosy  top-room 
became  a  radiant  place  to  Cynthia,  and  the  noise  of  the 
traffic  was  the  dearest  sound  in  the  world.  She  grew 
absorbed;  chin  tilted  on  slender  fingers,  elbows  on  the 
table,  muff  dangling.  Others  came  in;  her  presence 
lit  up  the  room  for  them  and  they  envied  Shaun,  playing 
the  pathetic  part  of  'old  dog'  with  skill  and  patience. 
His  sole  reward  was  the  humour  of  the  business ;  and  on 
their  next  meeting  towards  the  end  of  November  his 
over-great  enjoyment  of  this  caused  her  to  detect  him, 
which  she  did  with  a  sudden  smile.  Her  face  thus  sun- 
shine-lit was  vivid  with  a  beauty  which  made  the  unfor- 
tunate Shaun  groan.  The  clatter  of  teacups  drowned 


164  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

his  exclamation — if  it  were  audible  and  not  solely  mental. 
Seriousness  had  settled  on  her  sweet  countenance,  and 
she  drew  herself  up  to  have  it  out  with  him.  If  she  had 
been  cruel  she  must  ask  forgiveness ;  in  any  case  Shaun 
must  not  think  she  cared  for  Peter;  she  longed  to  see 
him,  but  that  was  not  love,  surely  not!  It  was  nice  of 
Peter  not  to  bother  her ;  she  did  not  blame  him  for  leav- 
ing her  alone.  Nor  would  she  lift  one  finger  to  draw 
him  back,  if  he  had  succeeded  in  forgetting  her. 

"You  are  laughing  at  me,"  said  she.  "Why,  please, 
Shaun?" 

"Because  you  bring  me  here  to  talk  of  Peter.  I'm 
inclined  to  be  jealous. ' '  He  spoke  chaffingly,  and  added 
in  a  different  tone,  "I've  always  been  your  firstest  friend 
hitherto,"  intending  her  to  think  him  platonically  jeal- 
ous. Cynthia's  intuition  told  her  otherwise,  but  his 
gravity  almost  deceived  her.  She  inquired,  "You  are 
not  laughing  because  you  think  I'm  in — stupid  about 
Peter,  are  you?"  with  convincing  indifference,  in  spite 
of  the  stumble  over  the  Life-word,  and  accepted  his 
careless  denial,  each  being  too  much  occupied  with  acting 
to  watch  the  other.  Afterwards  came  the  danger  he  had 
foreseen,  and  she  was  inclined  to  regard  him  as  the  hero 
sacrificing  his  own  suit  for  his  friend 's.  To  avert  suspi- 
cion Shaun  had  never  mentioned  his  own  withdrawal, 
and  this  gave  colour  to  the  romantic  theory.  He  was 
desperate  now  to  prevent  her  examining  the  relations  of 
all  three,  and  wrote,  Sometimes  I'm  jealous,  sometimes 
I'm  not.  Always  though,  I  want  you  to  like  Peter.  She 
reflected,  smiling  tenderly  the  while,  that  here  was  in  any 
case  the  truth;  and  more  dances  helped  her  to  forget. 
Shaun,  however,  dared  do  no  more  for  Peter  than  con- 
tinue his  education.  So  things  went  on  until  Christmas 
in  spite  of  the  lover's  protestations.  Shaun  would  not 
let  him  visit  or  write,  for  ' '  If  her  feeling  does  not  grow 
with  absence  it  is  not  what  I  think  it,"  he  declared, 
and  Lady  Bremner's  attitude  when  Peter  paid  his  dinner 
call  had  been  the  reverse  of  encouraging.  Cynthia  her- 
self had  been  out. 

"Never  let  the  shy  bird  catch  sight  of  the  salt,"  was 


THE  WINGS  OF  YOUTH  165 

one  of  Shaun 's  maxims,  and  he  had  violated  it.  To 
punish  himself  he  sent  Cynthia  no  Christmas  present, 
and  gave  Peter  a  complete  edition  of  Meredith.  He 
prayed  that  she  was  not  thinking  him  a  hero,  forgetting 
that  the  writing  of  scores  of  letters  and  the  despatch  of 
innumerable  parcels,  to  make  no  mention  of  festivities 
of  every  description,  left  the  girl  no  leisure  at  all  for 
thought  at  this  season.  Early  on  Christmas  afternoon 
Peter  arrived,  overjoyed,  to  thank  him  for  the  Meredith ; 
he  was  to  dine  in  Panton  Street  but  had  been  unable 
longer  to  restrain  himself  from  gratitude.  Shaun 
promptly  engaged  him  for  tea. 

"I've  only  had  a  couple  of  Christmas  cards,  besides 
your  gift,"  said  Peter,  rather  wistfully.  "Have  you 
much  spoil?" 

"Anything  from  Cynthia?" 

"No." 

"Good  sign  that.  You  sent  her  the  Yoshio  Markino 
book,  I  suppose?  No,  Peter,  I  haven't  much  spoil. 
Three  or  four  cards;  as  many  letters;  a  lithograph  by 
that  chap  we  met  at  the  Savage  last  Saturday — very- 
good  of  him  to  think  of  me,  wasn't  it?  The  Crock  of 
Gold  from  Cynthia  Rosemary,  which  I  'd  got  already,  as 
I  had  to  review  it, — you  take  the  review  copy,  will  you  ? 
— and  a  very  delightful  old  leather-bound  Ovid  which  I 
coveted  in  the  Charing  Cross  Road  when  I  was  with  a 
certain  Peter  Middleton.  Thanks  and  many  of  them. 
I  should  never  have  afforded  it  for  myself!" 

Indeed  Shaun  was  a  comparatively  poor  man,  even 
from  Peter's  point  of  view,  which  caused  that  library 
edition  of  Meredith  to  weigh  for  the  moment  on  his 
conscience. 

"Tactless  ass  that  I  am,"  exclaimed  Shaun,  reading 
him,  "I  have  the  intellect  of  a  deboshed  fish.  The 
Meredith  was  a  little  contribution  to  your  housekeeping, 
Peter.  It  was  a  sly  gift  to  a  lady  whom  I  otherwise 
disregarded.  I  hope  it  will  bring  you  luck,  and  you've 
no  right  to  thank  me  for  it  yet.  Did  I  tell  you  that  I 
knew  Meredith?  Not  intimately.  He  was  kind  to  me 
when  I  left  journalism." 


166  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

"I  saw  him  once,"  said  Peter.  "I've  brought  you  a 
sketch  I  made  of  him.  It's  in  my  overcoat."  He  de- 
parted downstairs  to  fetch  it,  while  Sliaun  set  his  mem- 
ory to  work ;  he  disliked  to  be  forgetful,  and  was  strug- 
gling with  a  dim  recollection  that  some  time  in  the  past 
he  had  asked  Peter  whether  he  could  draw  and  had  not 
received  an  answer. 

Peter  was  back  in  a  moment.  He  was  surprised  at 
the  way  Shaun  stared  at  the  rough  piece  of  work  that  he 
handed  over.  "Is  it  like ? "  he  inquired,  at  last. 

"Have  you  got  a  portfolio  at  home?"  asked  Shaun, 
still  examining  the  portrait. 

"Portfolio?" 

* '  Other  sketches,  man !  Go  and  get  them.  I  want  to 
see  all  you've  got." 

"Do  you  like  it,  then?" 

"Don't  stand  there  jabbering  to  me!"  cried  Shaun, 
irritably.  "I  don't  think  you  are  a  Michelangelo,  but 
I  want  to  see  your  work.  Can't  you  understand,  and 
clear  out?  Bring  me  ^everything  you've  done." 

Considerably  mystifredj.  Peter  withdrew,  and  when  he 
returned  nearly  a  coupte^of  hours  later  Shaun  was 
beaming.  ' '  Here 's  your  teav' '  he  said,  rising.  ' '  Forgive 
my  ill- temper,  won't  you?  I'll  sit  by  the  fire  and  look 
through  this  stuff  of  yours. ' ' 

Half  an  hour  later  he  picked  up  the  sketches  from  the 
floor,  where  he  had  laid  them  one  by  one,  tossed  the 
pile  on  to  the  desk  behind  him,  and  said,  "Come  over 
here  opposite,  and  light  up.  .  .  .  Well,  old  chap,  what  do 
you  think  of  these  yourself?" 

Peter  puffed  solemnly  before  answering.  "I  don't 
think  about  them,"  he  said.  "I've  never  been  taught 
to  draw.  Sometimes  I  've  reckoned  that  a  pity. ' ' 

"It  may  or  may  not  be,  considering  the  kind  of  art 
school  you'd  probably  have  attended,"  said  Shaun, 
grimly.  "Go  on." 

"I  think  I  can  catch  a  likeness.  Landscape  is  what  I 
want  to  do,  but  I  never  have  the  chance.  For  goodness ' 
sake  tell  me  what  you're  thinking  of,  Shaun.  You've 
made  me  as  jumpy  as  anything." 


THE  WINGS  OF  YOUTH  167 

Shaun  leaned  forward  and  put  his  elbows  on  his  knees, 
a  favourite  gesture  of  his  when  moved.  "My  dear 
Peter,  your  catching  a  likeness,  as  you  call  it,  is  a  very 
genuine  gift  of  caricature." 

"I  wasn't  caricaturing  Meredith!"  objected  Peter, 
flushing. 

"But  you  did  it!" 

"I  say,  you  are  rough  on  a  chap!  Why,  I  wouldn't 
have  minded  showing  that  sketch  to  Meredith.  I  had 
no  idea  of  making  fun. ' ' 

"That's  the  point.  Your  caricature  has  the  extraor- 
dinary gift  of  kindness.  It  isn't  brutal,  it  isn't  vulgar, 
it's  quaint  and  it's  illuminating!  Hang  it  all,  man, 
that  rotten  little  sketch  of  yours  is  Meredith,  technically 
bad  though  it  is!  Have  you  ever  tried  to  sell  those 
cartoons  of  politicians,  the  cat  ones  I  mean  ? ' ' 

"I  sent  one  to  Punch  a  long  time  ago,"  said  Peter, 
over  whom  a  curious  prickling  excitement  was  beginning 
to  creep. 

' '  You  're  no  good  for  Punch  yet,  but  I  '11  sell  these  four. 
Damn  it,  man,  you  must  work  like  hell!  There's  an 
income  here  in  the  course  of  time.  You  must  go  to  a 
decent  school  and  learn  to  draw.  Honestly,  I  know  what 
I'm  talking  about!  I  was  a  successful  journalist  for 
years.  £800  a  year  I  made  and  Doris  encouraged  me  to 
give  it  up  to  do  good  work.  There  was  a  girl  for  you ! 
There  was  a  girl!  I  pulled  in  £50  by  my  first  novel, 
which  took  fifteen  months  to  write.  Why,  now,  with 
reviewing,  my  income  is  never  more  than  £120!  I'm 
spending  my  savings.  I  tell  you  it's  journalism  that 
pays,  not  literature.  You  shall  add  twenty  pounds  to 
your  income  the  first  year,  Peter.  This  is  some  use; 
this  may  help  to  Cynthia." 

"I've  always  longed " 

* '  Don 't  long  to  be  an  artist  of  any  kind.  Want  to  be 
a  journalist,"  exclaimed  Shaun,  preaching  against  his 
practice.  "To  be  the  real  article  is  to  be  a  profound 
affliction  to  yourself  and  to  everyone  round  about  you. 
A  genuine  creative  artist,  whether  he  be  poet  or  musician 
or  painter  or  novelist,  would  kill  his  own  baby  and  eat  it 


168  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

on  toast,  if  that  would  help  his  work.  And  look  at  the 
way  he's  treated  by  normal  people!  While  he  is  young 
it  is  their  job  to  tell  him  not  to  be  theatrical,  and  to  warn 
him  of  the  fate  of  liars  and  of  boys  who  decline  to  enter 
the  Civil  Service.  When  he  is  adult  they  despise  and 
distrust  him  and  accuse  him  of  wanting  to  borrow  money. 
When  he 's  old  they  emerge  and  inquire  candidly  whether 
he  does  not  think  he  has  wasted  his  life!" 

"You  don't  mean  all  that  rot,"  said  Peter,  reproach- 
fully. 

"I  mean  about  your  having  a  gift  which  may  enable 
you  to  marry,  my  boy, ' '  said  Shaun,  sucking  furiously  at 
his  pipe.  '"Talk  of  hiding  your  light  under  a  bushel!" 

That  was  the  happiest  Christmas  Peter  could  remem- 
ber ;  and  when  he  reached  home  in  a  tremendous  state  of 
excitement,  resolved  to  do  or  die  in  the  coming  year,  he 
was  told  a  maid  had  left  a  note  from  Lady  Bremner.  His 
landlady  was  deeply  impressed.  She  had  "just  hap- 
pened to  ask  who  it  was  from."  He  hastened  upstairs, 
and  found  that  it  was  from  Cynthia,  who  had  written  to 
thank  him  and  give  her  and  her  Mother's  good  wishes 
and  ask  whether  he  could  take  Phyllis  (Oh  Lord!)  and 
herself  (Thank  God!)  to  Peter  Pan  to-morrow  evening, 
and  if  so  would  he  dine  with  them  first  ? 

Peter  thanked  God  again,  from  his  heart. 


XX 

THE  stalls  were  filling  rapidly.  There  was  a  buzz  of 
conversation  in  the  crowded  theatre.  People  were  re- 
moving wraps,  settling  in  their  places,  or  standing  up  to 
greet  distant  friends.  Many  of  them  were  habitues  of 
Peter  Pan,  their  faces  familiar  to  Cynthia:  she  bowed, 
smiling,  in  return  to  the  salutation  of  ladies  she  had  met 
year  after  year.  Shrill  childish  voices  sounded  occasion- 
ally from  the  pit  above  the  hum  of  hushed  talk  and 
laughter.  The  gallery  was  packed  and  riotous.  Into 
the  upper  and  dress  circles  a  steady  flow  of  movement 
was  setting ;  which  Cynthia  was  watching,  her  arm  rested 
on  the  back  of  her  seat.  Everywhere  programme-sellers 
were  busy,  followed  by  the  chink  of  coin.  At  her  side 
Peter  and  Phyllis  were  bending  over  one  of  the  unfolded 
sheets.  When  he  straightened  himself  Cynthia  moved 
also  and  regarded  alternately  the  programme  that  she 
held  in  her  hand  and  the  great  curtain  which  was  sway- 
ing in  a  mysterious  fashion.  Now  and  then  an  eye  ap- 
peared at  the  peep-hole  and  was  welcomed  by  three  little 
girls  in  the  front  row  with  shrieks  of  ecstasy.  In  the 
orchestra,  violins  were  beginning  to  be  tuned,  a  flautist 
was  blowing  smooth  scales,  a  double-bass  throbbed. 

Peter  was  tall,  broad-shouldered,  and  gentlemanly. 
She  liked  him  in  his  evening  clothes,  was  confused  to 
think  how  much  she  had  enjoyed  the  meeting  after  so 
many  months.  His  dear,  plain  face  was  almost  beauti- 
ful! She  dared  not  ask  herself  when  it  had  become  so. 
Or  how !  But  she  thrilled  with  the  knowledge  that  she 
was  looking  her  best.  Phyllis,  beyond,  was  pensive  in 
white.  The  silence  amongst  them  was  queer,  although  it 
could  only  have  lasted  seconds ! 

Peter  was  aware  of  his  Beloved  in  a  peacock-blue, 

169 


170  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

Liberty  theatre  frock,  gold-embroidered,  with  short 
sleeves;  her  hair  done  high.  He  blushed  hotly  as  her 
bare  elbow  touched  his  coat.  That  One  laughed  at  them 
both,  unrebuked;  and  he  turned  involuntarily  to  speak 
to  Cynthia,  though  he  had  meant  to  address  Phyllis. 

The  words  were  ordinary  enough :  ' '  One 's  first  night 
at  Peter  Pan  brings  the  same  thrill  season  after  season : 
doesn  't  it  ?  I  've  always  been  in  the  pit,  and  it  feels  odd 
to  be  part  of  the  scene  I  used  to  look  on  at." 

"Yes,"  said  Cynthia,  taking  refuge  from  her  embar- 
rassment in  the  shortest  and  plainest  speech.  She  dim- 
pled in  uttering  it,  and  he  watched  her  soft  cheek  and 
rounded  chin  for  a  repetition  of  the  wonder.  Phyllis 
nudged  him. 

"Don't  stare  like  a  cat  at  a  mouse-hole!"  she  derided, 
prettily.  "Silly  old  Peter!"  Her  dark,  oval  face 
mocked  him  at  close  quarters;  bewitching,  had  he  not 
been  in  love !  He  cast  about  in  his  memory  for  something 
to  suppress  the  tease. 

' '  Where 's  Joyce  ? "  he  asked,  instinctively. 

"In  Devonshire.  Where  she  belongs!"  retorted  That 
One.  "And  I'm  off,  though  not  so  far.  You're  the 
ultimate  edge,  mooncalf!  Lucky  for  you  I'm  good- 
natured.  Your  behaviour  to  faithful  Phyllis  is  perfectly 
abominable.  You  were  better  at  dinner,  but  I'll  hint  to 
you  before  I  go  that  Aunt  Emmie,  who  meant  you  for 
me,  isn  't  any  longer  remorseful  at  having  neglected  you ! 
S-ss!  Bad  boy!"  She  snatched  her  wraps  from  the 
back  of  the  seat  and  sidled  actively  along  the  row,  as  the 
orchestra  burst  into  the  Pirates'  Chorus. 

"Avast!  Belay!  Yo-ho!  Heave-to!  ..."  hummed 
Cynthia,  under  her  breath,  and  heard  a  tragic  whisper, 
"Phyllis  is  gone." 

"So  much  the  better,"  she  answered  serenely  and 
recklessly.  "I  expect  she  has  found  friends.  Don't 
bother  about  her,  Peter!"  "Could  I  ~be  a  poor  man's 
wife?"  she  was  asking  herself,  in  the  breathless  hush  that 
preceded  the  rise  of  the  curtain. 

Oh,  clear  child's  voice  of  Michael!  Oh,  Nana!  Oh, 
Joy!  She  settled  down  to  listen,  and  did  so  absorbed, 


THE  WINGS  OF  YOUTH  171 

while  all  the  time  an  undertone  of  thought  was  chiming 
in  her  like  silver  bells.  Children !  .  .  .  She  would  love 
to  have  nice  children.  .  .  .  "Every  girl  wishes  for  nice 
children,"  had  said  Phyllis,  who  did  not.  .  .  .  And  a 
memory  of  Shaun's  wisdom  was  repeated  like  a  melody. 
"A  woman  who  can  see  the  child  in  a  man  is  fit  to 
marry,  is  fit  to  marry  an  artist. ' '  Peter  was  very  childlike. 

Not  Peter  Pan.  Oh,  Wendy,  you  are  sweet!  Peter 
Pan  was  a  boy,  but  the  author's  genius  had  not  made  him 
a  true  child.  .  .  .  He  was  a  changeling,  he  never  had  a 
mother  ...  he  was  the  spirit  of  boyhood.  .  .  .  Peter 
was  very  childlike. 

Could  she  be  a  mother  to  the  child  in  Peter  Middleton  ? 
Dared  she  ?  He  was  such  a  man !  Such  a  big,  splendid 
man ;  really  far  cleverer  than  she ;  and  strange  to  her.  . .  . 
( Oh,  the  sweetness  of  them,  flying ! )  Would  he  ask  her  ? 
Yes,  he  was  waiting  to,  she  could  not  be  mistaken.  .  .  . 
They  were  flying  out  of  the  window ;  the  music  triumph- 
ing, crashing  to  a  climax.  She  heard  the  rattle  of  ap- 
plause and  the  curtain  was  falling,  falling.  Would  it 
drop  for  ever?  And  the  voice  at  her  ear  said,  "I  love 
you,  Cynthia!"  Earnestly  it  said,  "I  love  you!"  It 
said,  "Darling!  Darling  Star!  Dear  Cynthia!  You 
Beautiful!  ..."  The  curtain  was  down,  and  through 
the  wild  clamour  of  the  house  she  listened  to  her  Peter 
imploring, ' '  Can 't  you  ? .  .  .  Can 't  you  ? ' '  He  asked  it  the 
third  time,  despair  in  his  voice,  and  she  whispered, 
"Yes!" 

The  lights  shot  up.  The  orchestra  began  to  play  the 
merry  Entr'acte.  Brown  eyes  were  lowered,  and  long 
lashes  veiled  the  grey.  Brown  eyes  peeped,  and  grey 
were  shining  with  the  sudden  tenderness  of  the  sky  at 
dawn.  The  colour  was  warm  on  Cynthia's  cheeks  as  she 
drew  back  and  pulled  the  wrap  upon  her  bare  shoulders. 
She  belonged  to  Peter  and  was  not  afraid.  It  was  a  dif- 
ferent girl  who  had  arranged  this  scarf  before  the  look- 
ing-glass an  hour  ago.  That  girl  seemed  very  young  and 
far-off,  and  she  pitied  her  because  she  had  not  known 
happiness. 

"Peter!"  said  Cynthia. 


172  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

He  grasped  her  hand,  and  let  it  go  as  he  feared  to 
draw  attention  to  her.  His  grip  hurt,  but  she  did  not 
wince.  She  loved  the  pain. 

Peter  had  turned,  and  now  he  uttered  an  exclamation. 
' '  Phyllis ! "  he  cried.  ' '  There  in  the  stage-box.  Do  you 
see,  Cynthia  ? ' '  The  runaway  was  alone  with  a  big,  sun- 
burned man  of  middle  age,  heavy  of  countenance,  who 
looked  a  mighty  hunter,  not  of  women.  He  was  admiring 
her  as  a  wondering  Newfoundland  might  a  kitten,  and 
she  was  flirting  desperately.  The  two  in  the  stalls  ap- 
proached their  heads  to  consult  as  comrades. 

' '  I  say,  ought  I  to  go  after  her  ? ' ' 

' '  I  think  he 's  a  friend  of  the  Petos,  but  Mother  would 
be  very  angry  if  she  knew ! ' ' 

"I  shall  have  to,  then." 

"Be  fearfully  tactful,  Peter!" 

He  showed  no  sign  of  departing.  Instead  he  mur- 
mured, ' '  We  are  engaged,  Cynthia ! ' '  She  dimpled,  and 
he  went  on,  "I  can't  believe  it  yet.  Are  you  sure — are 
you  sure  you  like  being  engaged  to  me?" 

He  was  entirely  serious,  arousing  in  Cynthia  tender 
amusement.  It  was  incredible  she  had  ever  not  loved 
Peter !  Besides,  women  aren  't  doubtful  about  things  like 
this.  She  became  conscious  of  an  impulse  to  tease  him 
in  order  to  know  her  power,  but  met  his  eyes  and  could 
not.  Her  gaze  grew  wonderful  and  deep :  she  answered, 
"Yes."  She  had  a  gift  of  frank  simplicity,  rarely  be- 
stowed on  a  girl  who  inherits  loveliness  of  the  refined  and 
delicate  type.  In  a  few  moments  they  were  talking 
naturally,  with  only  glances  to  betray  their  secret.  When 
they  remembered  Phyllis  the  box  was  empty,  and  even 
as  they  looked  the  auditorium  was  darkened,  and  behind 
the  curtain  rang  out  the  Pan-pipes. 

Oh,  sweet,  charmed  pipes  of  Slightly;  oh,  dancing 
Ostrich,  and  Lost  Children,  and  dear  House  we  built  for 
Wendy !  Oh,  mysterious  Lagoon,  and  fascinating  Home 
under  the  Ground !  Oh,  Redskins,  and  Hook  and  gentle 
Smee !  They  sat  apart  in  a  rosy  mist,  from  which  they 
surveyed  the  traffic  of  the  Never  Never  Never  Land  with 
magic  joy,  the  girl  exulting  in  being  owned,  Peter  en- 


,THE  WINGS  OP  YOUTH  173 

raptured  and  surprised.  Cynthia  loved  her  soul  and  her 
looks,  because  they  gave  him  pleasure.  She  radiated, 
sparkling,  a  heavenly  young  felicity.  Stie  asked  herself 
what  she  had  done  to  be  such  a  happy  girl.  He  was 
Peter !  His  nearness  filled  her  with  a  delicious  trepida- 
tion. She  fluttered  at  the  touch  of  his  hand,  which,  bold 
in  the  darkness,  caressed  hers  lightly ;  until  after  a  while, 
greatly  daring,  she  drew  off  her  scarf  and  contrived  a 
hiding-place  where  the  two  lovers  might  hold  each  other 
close. 

Once  more  the  clapping  subsided  in  the  brightly-lit 
auditorium  amid  a  general  stir  of  movement  and  a  hum 
of  excited  conversation.  The  girl  covered  her  smooth 
shoulders,  and  felt  a  sensation  of  stroking  fingers  as  the 
thin  silk  settled  against  her  skin.  She  felt  the  fabric 
upon  the  nape  of  her  neck  to  be  warm  from  the  nest  in 
which  their  hands  had  lain  interlocked;  and  turned 
gracefully  away,  confused.  He  saw  her  inclined  forward 
in  an  attitude  of  readiness  for  flight,  a  hand  on  the  fur- 
ther curve  of  the  stall;  a  bare,  flexed  elbow  visible  be- 
hind her;  and  her  near  slender,  lovely  arm  drooping 
straight,  creamy  white  under  the  blue  of  its  short,  trans- 
parent sleeve.  On  the  second  finger  was  a  sapphire  ring, 
and  Peter  could  see  clasped  round  the  wrist  of  the  other 
white  arm,  just  beyond  the  falling  wrap,  a  bracelet  of 
soft  gold.  The  picture  impressed  itself  on  his  brain  and 
then  he,  too,  turned  away. 

The  stage-box  was  still  vacant,  and  a  wild  hope  sprang 
up  in  his  heart  that  Phyllis  might  not  reappear.  He  did 
not  know  whether  or  not  she  were  sleeping  at  the  Brem- 
ners'.  Perhaps  her  own  car  was  to  meet  her  after  the 
theatre  to  take  her  back  to  Weybridge,  in  which  case  the 
Bremners '  new,  dark-green  Wolseley,  which  had  brought 
them  hither,  would  be  calling  for  Cynthia.  Of  course  it 
would !  He  had  not  thought  of  that.  Although  it  made 
small  difference,  so  long  as  he  was  alone  with  her.  .  .  . 
But  was  it — could  that  be  why  she  was  shy,  because  they 
would  be  absolutely  alone  ?  A  cold  fear  crept  over  him, 
and  before  he  knew,  he  had  whipped  round  and  was 
calling,  "Cynthia!  Cynthia!" 


174  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

Oh,  her  dear,  silky  hair,  and  her  neck!  She  turned. 
Her  cheeks  were  scarlet,  the  poise  of  her  chin  proud, 
and  her  wide  grey  eyes  gazed  beyond  him !  Never  had 
Peter  suffered  before.  All  previous  agony  were  happiness 
to  this!  His  world  toppled  into  hideous  ruins.  "Are 
you  sorry  you  said  yes?"  he  breathed,  his  soul  in  his 
tragic  face.  "You  are  free,  you  know."  She  glanced 
at  him  alarmed,  and  uttered  a  low  singing  cry  that  was 
half  a  sob :  ' '  Oh,  Peter,  I  've  hurt  you  so !  And  I  was 
only  frightened." 

She  was  swaying  to  him,  like  a  blue  flower,  when  they 
noticed  watchers  and  drew  back  both,  and  for  a  long 
time  after  the  house  was  dark  sat  still  and  upright  and 
self-conscious. 

Swiftly,  swiftly  the  scenes  passed  by.  Wendy's 
Sampler  vanished,  leaving  Outside  the  House.  The 
short  dialogue  there  sustained  the  enchantment.  Then 
beauty  succeeded  quaintness;  the  music  entered  on  a 
broad  and  flowing  melody,  and  the  curtain  rose  for  the 
last  time,  to  reveal  the  exquisite  fairyland  of  the  tree- 
tops.  Moonlight  and  glamour  cast  their  spell;  the  little 
house  ascended  and  Peter  Pan  and  Wendy  made  their 
appearance  in  the  doorway.  Liza  flew  off  on  her  broom- 
stick. The  fairy-lights,  mauve,  white,  and  blue,  flashed 
in  the  branches.  The  music  swelled  to  a  noble  climax. 
An  ecstasy  of  youth  and  joy  flew  from  the  beating 
handkerchiefs.  Peter  and  Wendy  were  waving  from 
the  stage.  The  whole  of  the  audience  were  on  their  feet, 
shouting  and  waving,  Cynthia  and  Peter  among  them. 
Applause  shook  the  building.  The  mounting  tide  of  en- 
thusiasm turned  all  into  children.  At  last  the  lights  shot 
up;  Cynthia  slipped  into  her  long,  gold  cloak,  Peter 
struggled  into  his  overcoat,  and  they  joined  the  pro- 
cession moving  slowly  towards  the  exit. 

' '  Isn  't  it  glorious  ? ' '  asked  Cynthia.  ' '  Isn  't  it  simply 
beautiful?  I'm  coming  every  year  if  it's  revived  a 
hundred  times !  May  I,  Peter  ? ' ' 

He  was  dizzied  by  the  'May  I?'  and  jogged  a  neigh- 
bour's shoulder,  necessitating  apologies.  Then,  "I 
hope  we'll  go  a  thousand  times!"  he  said  to  her 


THE  WINGS  OF  YOUTH  175 

as  they  emerged  into  the  open  air,  which  frostily  at- 
tacked their  cheeks.  "Bremner,"  he  told  the  Commis- 
sionaire. 

"That  One  is  a  beast!"  murmured  Cynthia  as  they 
waited  on  the  pavement  in  the  throng  of  stallites.  "I 
haven't  the  faintest  idea  what  to  do." 

Suddenly  Phyllis  made  her  appearance,  stepping  out 
of  the  Bremners'  landaulet,  as  cool  as  possible.  "I've 
left  mine  up  the  road,"  she  cried.  "Take  me  up  to  it, 
Cynthia  Rosemary !  Oh,  I  've  had  such  a  topping  supper 
at  the  Savoy.  He  had  actually  come  to  bother  one  of 
the  actresses  and  I  couldn  't  stand  that,  could  I  ?  Don 't 
you  think  he's  rather  a  dear?  Fat  and  fifty,  but  a 
ripping  good  sort,  and,  oh  Cynthia,  what  an  appetite! 
You  never  saw  anything  like  the  quantities  we  ate.  I 
was  hungry  as  a  hunter  again  in  spite  of  your  good 
dinner,  darling.  Don't  you  think  Pauline  Chase  is 
sweetly  pretty,  Peter?  There's  mine!  There's  mine! 
Tell  Rogers  to  stop,  Cynthia!  Oh,  I  didn't  see  you'd 
got  a  bell!  Rather  decent!  We  have  one  of  course. 
Don't  you  admire  our  big  yellow  Lanchester?  Good 
night,  darling!  Thanks  terrifically  for  bringing  me! 
There's  no  need  to  say  anything  to  Auntie  about  my 
flitting  off,  but  if  you  think  anyone  saw  me  you'd 
better  own  up.  I  don't  want  to  get  you  into  a  row,  you 
know.  S 'long,  Peter!" 

She  was  gone.  "Did  we  say  anything?"  he  inquired, 
as  he  shut  the  door. 

"There  wasn't  any  need,"  said  Cynthia.  The  car 
leapt  forward.  They  turned  and  looked  at  each  other 
and  suddenly  he  clasped  her  to  him,  unskilfully  and 
almost  with  roughness.  She  shook  herself  free  and  then- 
meeting  his  eyes  abandoned  herself  with  an  inarticulate, 
sweet  cry,  yielding  her  upturned  face,  her  throat,  her 
hair  to  his  kisses.  Their  lips  met.  Hers  seemed  cold  and 
unresponsive.  Then  they  warmed,  they  returned  the 
pressure  of  his.  Oh,  wild  rapture!  "Darling!" 
"Peter!"  murmured  the  young  voices.  Their  strong 
young  arms  were  holding  each  other  tightly  embraced, 
her  soft  cheek  was  against  his,  her  hair  blinding  him, 


176  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

the  warmth  of  her  maddening  him,  as  the  car  ran 
smoothly  to  a  standstill  in  Portman  Square. 

"My  hair!"  exclaimed  Cynthia,  sitting  up  and  touch- 
ing it  with  deft  fingers.  "Rogers  will  take  you 

home "  as  the  chauffeur  appeared  at  the  door.  He 

opened  it  and  she  leaped  lightly  to  the  ground.  She 
could  have  flown.  ' '  Good  night,  Peter !  Sweet  dreams, 
Peter ! ' ' 

"Good  night,  Cynthia." 

The  hall  door  was  flung  wide.  She  turned  on  the 
threshold  in  the  bright  light  of  the  porch,  a  beautiful, 
slender  person,  and  waved  her  hand.  The  loose  sleeve 
fell  from  her  white  arm,  which  gleamed.  It  jerked  and 
disappeared,  as  the  car  started  and  passed  into  dark- 
ness, steadily  purring,  while  from  behind  came  to  Peter 
the  sound  of  the  closing  door. 


XXI 

Shawl's, 

Next  evening. 
Darling  Cynthia, 

I  could  hardly  "believe  it  was  true  when  I  woke. 
You  are  such  a  darling.  I  don't  know  why  you  care  for 
me. 

The  package  with  this  was  my  mother's.  I  know  you 
like  sapphires  because  you  were  wearing  them.  It  is 
sapphires  and  diamonds.  Please  like  it,  dear.  Tour  hair 
is  lovely  and  soft  against  one's  cheek;  I  wish  I  felt  it 
now. 

Shaun  sends  his  love.  Isn't  he  the  kindest  chap  in  the 
world  f  There  isn't  anyone  like  him.  He  says  he  wants 
back  a  Jeremy  Taylor  he  lent  you.  He  says  I  ought  not 
to  speak  to  your  father  yet,  but  it  seems  the  straightfor- 
ward thing  to  do.  I  feel  as  though  I  couldn't  do  any- 
thing that  wasn't  straight,  until  the  world  ends.  If  I 
did  I  should  deserve  to  lose  you.  Darling. 

What  do  you  think?  I  can't  help  knowing,  and  so  I'll 
call  to-morrow  after  the  Office  and  break  it  to  him.  He 
can't  be  pleased.  I  never  went  to  sleep  last  night  till  six 
o'clock,  thinking  of  what  I've  let  you  in  for.  That  isn't 
quite  true.  I  was  thinking  of  you,  beautiful,  beautiful 
Cynthia,  my  own  darling,  most  of  the  time. 

You  know  how  I  stand.  I'm  afraid  we  shall  be  en- 
gaged an  awfully  long  time.  I'm  sorry,  dear. 

Shaun  says  he  has  written  to  you  about  my  drawing. 
I  tell  you  I  was  glad  about  that!  But  even  if  he's  right 
and  I  make  some  money  it  won't  ever  be  enough  to  give 
you  all  the  things  I  want  to,  all  the  things  you  ought  to 
have. 

You  won't  laugh,  because  you  are  so  wonderful  at 

177 


178  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

understanding.  I  feel  as  though  God  must  have  wanted 
it  or  He  would  not  have  let  it  happen.  I  can't  tell  your 
Father  that.  When  did  you  begin  to  love  me?  I  "began 
when  I  saw  you,  I  think,  but  it  really  came  at  Tintagel. 
I  knew  on  the  first  night. 

Darling,  if  I  don't  hear  from  you  I'll  come  to-morrow. 
If  you  think  it  best  for  us  to  say  nothing  for  a  bit  please 
send  a  wire  saying  "Better  not."  If  you  are  sorry  you 
ever  went  to  'Peter  Pan'  send  a  wire  "No,"  and  I  shatt 
never  bother  you. 

I  love  you. 

Peter. 

Cynthia,  may  I  give  you  a  kissf 

Shaun  tells  me  to  say  from  him,  show  his  letter  to  your 
Mother  at  once  before  I  come.  He  says  you'll  under- 
stand. 

Darling  Cynthia. 


XXII 

Portman  Square, 

Saturday,  28  :  XII  :  191Z. 
Dear  Potor, 
Peter  Dear, 

Whatever  you  decide  is  right;  whatever  you  wish 
is  to  be  done.  I  am  the  happiest  girl  in  the  world.  I  do 
not  care  if  millions  more  are  saying  the  same  thing! 
They  are  not  engaged  to  my  Peter.  The  ring  is  lovely, 
dear.  Thank  you!!  It  is  as  near  to  my  heart  as  I  can 
coax  it  to  go.  Gravity  makes  it  hang  too  much  to  the 
right!  I  shall  have  to  take  it  off  in  the  evening  or  the 
chain  will  show.  Luckily  there  is  no  Marie,  and  so  I  can 
keep  it  until  the  last  moment! 

Daddy  will  Ite  out  this  afternoon.  You  had  better  write 
and  ask  for  an  appointment;  suggest  Tuesday  at  six>, 
when  I  think  he  will  be  free!  It  is  the  last  day  of  hi*\ 
Christmas  leave. 

We  are  all  of  us  hopelessly  tied  up  with  engagements. 
Mother  has  gone  away  until  Tuesday;  and  Cynthia  has 
to  look  after  her  Daddy  and  take  him  out  in  the  daytime, 
in  return  for  which  he  takes  her  out  in  the  evening.  If 
she  can  she  will  prepare  her  Parent,  but  you  won't  be 
fearfully  disappointed  if  he  forbids  our  engagement  at 
first,  will  you,  dear?  I  love  you.  I  will  never  give  you 
up.  I  do  not  mind  waiting  years  and  years  and  years! 
I  want  to  be  a  poor  man's  wife. 

I  do  not  know  when  it  was!  I  have  puzzled  myself 
with  thinking  it  over.  Let's  say  we've  always  cared  from 
the  beginning  of  the  world!  I  will,  if  you  will.  I  care 
now,  anyway! 

Tour 

Cynthia. 
179 


180  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

Yes,  please! 

Daddy  is  leading  me  to  St.  Margaret's,  Westminster, 
to-morrow  morning.  I'm  afraid  I  ought  not  to  do  more 
than  see  you! 

Shaun  is  a  darling! 


XXIII 

Portman  Square, 

December  30th,  1912. 
Dear  Middleton, 

I  shall  be  free  to-morrow  at  the  hour  you  name. 
Glad  to  see  you  then. 

Yours  very  truly, 

Everard  Bremner. 


181 


XXIV 

ON  the  morning  of  the  appointment  Cynthia  entered  the 
library,  where  Sir  Everard  was  writing,  and  busied 
herself  with  some  cataloguing  which  she  had  undertaken 
some  time  ago  in  order  to  find  out  whether  she  possessed 
any  aptitude  for  the  work.  It  still  interested  her;  and 
she  knew  that  she  was  doing  it  well,  and  that  her  father 
liked  to  see  her  thus  employed.  Seizing  the  psychologic 
moment  when  he  had  finished  a  letter  and  was  watching 
her,  she  asked,  "Daddy,  Peter  Middleton  is  coming  to 
see  you  this  evening,  is  he  not  ? ' ' 

She  went  on  sorting  cards  as  she  spoke. 

"Yes,"  said  Sir  Everard,  precisely.  She  knew  by  his 
tone  that  his  brows  were  knitted  and  his  gaze  piercing. 
She  was  glad  that  he  was  looking  at  her;  she  felt  that 
she  made  a  picture  to  touch  a  father's  heart.  "Isn't 
that  a  new  dress?"  he  said,  sharply,  before  she  could 
speak  again. 

"I'm  spending  the  day  with  Madge  Tressly-Buchan. " 
She  was  already  conscious  of  being  on  the  defensive. 

"What  has  Middleton  to  tell  me?" 

She  rose.  '  If  you  are  tall  and  slender,  when  in  doubt 
rise!'  was  one  of  Shaun's  maxims.  Cynthia,  however, 
acted  upon  instinct,  which  led  her  into  the  centre  of  the 
room  where  the  sunlight  was. 

"We  care  for  each  other,  Daddy.  Don't  be  angry 
with  me!  I  know  you'll  feel  inclined  not  to  agree  to 
our  engagement.  I  simply  ask  you  not  to  say  anything 
to  Peter  that  will  make  things  unpleasant  afterwards. 
We  shall  marry  in  time ! ' '  The  last  words  were  like  the 
unfurling  of  a  banner. 

' '  There  is  no  need  to  upset  yourself,  Polly, ' '  said  Sir 

182 


THE  WINGS  OF  YOUTH  183 

Everard  in  a  dry  tone  and  with  apparent  lack  of  sur- 
prise. ' '  I  will  listen  to  what  Middleton  has  to  say,  and 
consult  your  Mother."  He  turned  away  with  an  air  of 
finality.  She  went  towards  him  to  kiss  him,  but  he  had 
taken  another  sheet  of  paper  and  lifted  his  pen.  So  she 
ran  swiftly  upstairs  and  fell  upon  her  bed  and  cried. 
She  hoped  that  she  had  done  good,  though  not  as  much 
as  might  have  been  done,  but  she  had  spent  all  her 
courage  in  the  effort. 

After  a  while  she  bathed  her  eyes,  and  left  the  house 
half  an  hour  before  her  mother  was  due  to  return,  with  a 
feeling  of  escape,  glad  that  she  was  going  to  be  out  dur- 
ing the  remainder  of  the  day.  Her  programme  included 
lunch  at  the  Bath  Club  for  certain,  and  tea  there  as  well 
probably,  as  Madge  would  want  to  dive,  so  she  need  not 
reach  home  until  after  Peter  had  left.  Poor  Peter !  She 
was  afraid  to  meet  him  immediately  after  his  interview 
with  Daddy.  Dear  Peter !  How  gentle  he  was  with  her 
always,  and  he  was  so  big !  All  day  long  she  was  think- 
ing of  him.  When  lunching  it  was — "Does  Peter  like 
salmon  ? ' '  While  swimming — ' '  He  loves  bathing.  Does 
he  ever  go  to  the  baths  in  winter  ?  There  is  no  place  to 
lounge  about  in,  no  place  where  you  can  get  cool  after 
dressing  in  ordinary  baths.  If  only  he  doesn't  catch 
cold ! ' '  Poised  for  a  dive,  she  remembered  how  she  had 
seen  him  once  with  his  sleeves  rolled  up — he  had  splen- 
did, muscular  arms,  which  was  nice  in  a  man;  she 
thought  he  must  be  tremendously  strong.  As  she  was 
climbing  out  of  the  bath  she  resolved  to  ask  him  to  bring 
his  drawings  to  the  house  next  time  he  came.  During 
tea  she  said  to  herself,  "Madge  is  rather  off-hand. 
Would  he  like  her  ?  How  nice  he  is  with  Mother ! ' '  But 
on  the  drive  home  it  was  again,  ' '  Poor  Peter ! ' ' 

Meanwhile  Peter  had  been  ushered  into  the  library, 
now  lit  by  pendant  lamps  with  green  shades,  and  had 
found  Sir  Everard  in  the  deep-cushioned  revolving  arm- 
chair in  front  of  the  big  kneehole  table,  where  he  had 
been  seated  in  the  morning  when  Cynthia  spoke.  Sir 
Everard  rose  in  silence  to  shake  hands  with  him  and  mo- 
tioned him  to  a  seat;  then  he  appeared  to  wait  with 


184  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

expressionless  face  for  Peter  to  make  an  ass  of  him- 
self. 

Shaun  had  said,  ' '  If  you  are  boyish,  you  run  the  risk 
of  sailing  into  Portman  Square  on  the  point  of  Papa's 
toe.  Be  steady  and  grim!"  Peter  had  rarely  felt  less 
steady,  or  milder;  but  he  did  his  best  to  keep  apology 
from  his  voice  as  he  began,  ' '  Cynthia  and  I  have  found 
out  that  we  love  each  other,  sir.  I  thought  it  my  duty 
to  tell  you. ' '  Then  he  awaited  the  explosion.  It  did  not 
come. 

"Are  you  both  sure  of  yourselves?"  asked  Sir 
Everard,  in  a  quiet  voice. 

"Yes." 

To  his  surprise  Peter  thought  he  heard  the  father  sigh, 
and  was  immediately  disturbed  by  compunction. 

' '  Be  frank  as  to  your  prospects,  Middleton. ' ' 

He  stammered  over  the  recital  but  it  got  finished  at 
last. 

"My  wife  tells  me  Mr.  James  holds  out  hope  of  your 
succeeding  as  an  artist."  The  voice  was  colourless  and 
low. 

Peter  explained,  ending  with,  "  I  've  made  the  worst  of 
things  intentionally,  Sir  Everard.  I  know  it  will  be  a 
very  long  engagement,  and  that  we  shall  always  be  poor, 
in  comparison  with  what  Cynthia  was  brought  up  to. 
That  at  the  very  best,  I  'm  afraid !  But  we  're  young,  and 
we  do — we  do  care  for  each  other." 

"I  was  expecting  to  hear  that  you  had  brighter  pros- 
pects than  you  have  disclosed, ' '  said  Sir  Everard,  coldly. 
"I  cannot  reconcile  your  making  love  to  my  daughter 
with  the  conception  of  your  character  I  had  formed  pre- 
viously. Did  it  not  occur  to  you  that  there  was  a  point  of 
honour  involved  ?  You  were  a  guest  in  my  house,  and  I 
trusted  you.  .  .  .  Answer  the  question,  Middleton ! ' ' 

' '  It  happened,  sir, ' '  said  Peter,  doggedly.  ' '  There  was 
nothing  deliberate  about  it.  I  suppose  it  was  because 
we're  young." 

"You  certainly  are!"  exclaimed  Sir  Everard.  He 
continued  in  a  milder  tone, ' '  Do  I  understand  you  to  ask 
my  consent  to  an  open  engagement?" 


THE  WINGS  OF  YOUTH  185 

""We  hoped  you  might,  sir.  I  do  not  ask  quite  that 
now.  But  I  felt  all  along  it  was  my  duty  to  tell  you. ' ' 

"You  were  right ;  only  you  should  have  done  it  sooner. 
There  would  be  nothing  against  you,  had  you  the  smallest 
prospect  of  being  ever  in  a  position  to  marry.  I  respect 
your  frankness,  Middleton,  but  I  cannot  allow  it  to  in- 
fluence me.  Whether  you  are  received  in  this  house 
again  will  depend  upon  Lady  Bremner.  There  will  be  no 
question  of  it,  however,  unless  you  give  me  your  word 
that  you  come  on  terms  of  friendship  with  Rosemary." 

"That's  impossible,"  said  Peter,  turning  white. 

Sir  Everard  rose.  "I  am  acting,  upon  consideration, 
as  I  think  best  for  my  daughter.  I  should  like  to  part 
from  you  without  ill-will. ' ' 

Peter  had  risen  also.  He  took  Sir  Everard 's  hand. 
"You  won't  be  angry  with  Cynthia,  will  you?"  he  asked, 
trying  hard  not  to  sob,  as  he  felt  childishly  impelled  to  do. 

"I  shall  not  reopen  the  subject  with  her,"  promised 
Sir  Everard,  who  had  rung.  The  next  moment  a  servant 
appeared  at  the  door.  Peter  got  out  of  the  house,  but  he 
never  remembered  how.  Outside  he  hailed  a  taxi, 
and  drove  to  Shaun's,  where  he  was  received  with  open 
arms. 

"You  did  not  fly  hither,  I  trust,  dear  Peter!"  ex- 
claimed his  friend,  rushing  for  the  decanter,  with  a  soda- 
water  syphon  under  one  arm.  "You'll  get  accustomed 
to  these  little  interviews  in  time.  Drink  this,  you  old 
ass.  When  I  proposed  to  Doris  she  was  a  ward  in  chan- 
cery, which  is  a  serious  matter!  You  could  not  expect 
him  to  embrace  you;  and  the  more  violent  he  was,  the 
sooner  will  come  the  collapse,  you  know." 

"He  was  civil,"  groaned  Peter.  "And  I  don't  know 
why  I  should  be  as  devilishly  disappointed  as  I  am! 
Listen,  Shaun."  He  gave  a  verbatim  account,  during 
which  Shaun's  face  became  gradually  more  and  more 
serious. 

"Yes,  it  is  bad.  He  said  good-bye  to  you  for  ever, 
my  poor  Peter !  He  has  brains.  It  is  clear  that  he  sees 
you  are  both  in  earnest  at  present,  for  he  did  not  believe 
it  advisable  to  forbid  a  correspondence  or  secret  meet- 


186  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

ings.  His  plan  is  to  daunt  you  by  his  iron  will  and  per- 
fect self-control,  while  doing  nothing  to  arouse  defiance 
and  prejudice  you  against  his  point  of  view." 

"He  has  one,"  remarked  Peter.  "I  couldn't  help 
being  sorry  for  him." 

"I  should  have  had  one  in  the  sense  you  mean,  if  I 
had  not  thought  the  mischief  already  done  at  the  time 
you  first  spoke  to  me.  If  Cynthia  were  seventeen  it 
would  be  a  different  matter.  But  when  a  girl  who  is  old 
enough  to  know  her  own  mind,  and  has  one,  loses  her 
heart  in  the  course  of  nature,  that  is,  without  having 
been  attacked  by  violent  love-making  or  flirtation  or  emo- 
tional appeal,  to  a  man  absolutely  suited  to  her  in  every 
respect  save  fortune,  well,  it  behoves  a  parent  to  think 
whether  he  can  afford  an  allowance.  A  heart-broken 
daughter  is  no  satisfaction  to  a  parent,  is  she  ?  Cynthia 
is  not  the  kind  of  girl  to  give  you  up,  nor  are  you  the 
sort  of  f  man  to  give  her  up.  Bremner  is  too  sound  a 
judge  of  character  not  to  know  this.  He  would  do  better 
to  give  in  before  he  ruins  the  health  and  spirits  of  both 
of  you,  as  happens  infernally  often  in  these  cases.  If  he 
wins,  she  may  seem  to  forget  you,  but  she  won't  ever  be 
the  same  girl  again.  His  honesty  is  proved  by  the  fact, 
known  to  him,  that  she  will  never  forgive  what  he  has 
done.  Poverty  is  hard.  Poverty  is  a  dreadful  thing.  No 
one  knows  it  better  than  I,  for  we  were  frantically  poor 
when  we  married.  But  by  God !  I  'd  sooner  see  the  girl  I 
loved  worn  out  by  struggling  with  life  than  hardened  in 
spirit  by  the  prudent  avoidance  of  such  a  struggle !  If 
he  had  never  introduced  you  into  his  house,  I  mean  had 
he  deliberately  abstained  from  introducing  you,  I  should 
not  blame  him.  That  is  a  different  matter.  But  as  I 
understand  it,  Lady  Bremner  encouraged  this  intimacy 
in  order  to  oust  me.  The  responsibility  is  hers ;  and  if 
those  two  were  capable  of  thinking  each  other  in  error, 
she  would  hear  of  it !  Such  a  bargain  as  he  suggested  to 
have  been  implied  between  you  and  him  is  ridiculous. 
The  wind  bloweth  where  it  listeth,  and  who  can  control 
Love?  Has  the  man  never  heard  of  people  falling  in 
love  unconsciously  ?  I  in  no  way  approve  his  opinions ! 


THE  WINGS  OF  YOUTH  187 

But  I  don't  think  that  he  will  alter,  my  dear  boy,  and 
you  must  just  make  the  best  of  it  for  the  present." 

Cynthia  did  not  arrive  home  until  there  was  barely 
time  to  dress  for  dinner.  She  crept  upstairs,  mousy- 
quiet,  and  reached  the  shelter  of  her  bedroom  without 
detection.  Tremblingly  she  rang  for  Marie,  who  came 
and  performed  her  duties.  No  sooner,  however,  was  the 
maid  gone  than  Lady  Bremner  appeared  in  the  doorway, 
and  said:  "Daddy  has  told  me  something  that  has 
distressed  me  very  much,  darling,  but  he  says  we  must 
all  of  us  forget  about  it.  .  .  ." 

' '  I  don 't  want  to,  and  I  won 't ! "  interrupted  Cynthia, 
suddenly  bold.  "I  couldn't  if  I  wanted  to,  for  I  love 
Peter." 

"Hush,  darling!  You  must  not  ever  mention  his 
name  to  either  of  us.  Daddy  will  be  angry  if  you  do. 
Kemember  I  forbid  you  to  see  Mr.  Middleton  or  to  corre- 
spond with  him." 

"But,  Mother,  can  you  tell  me  any  single  thing  against 
Peter?" 

"Daddy  says  he  will  never  be  able  to  marry  a  girl  in 
your  position,  Rosemary  dear.  That  is  enough.  We  are 
not  wealthy  like  the  Petos,  you  must  remember.  If  he 
had  fallen  in  love  with  Phyllis,  Aunt  Bertha  and  Uncle 
Tim  could  very  easily  have  allowed  them  a  thousand  a 
year,  on  which  they  could  have  managed  had  Phyllis 
been  economical.  But  we  are  in  a  different  position,  and 
you  are  not  an  only  child,  my  darling.  Mr.  Middleton 's 
utmost  expectations,  even  supposing  Mr.  James's  hopes 
of  him  are  fulfilled,  would  only  amount  to  some  £500  a 
year  or  so,  and  there  is  nothing  certain.  Absolutely 
nothing,  except  £200  a  year,  in  several  years'  time. 
It  would  not  clothe  you!  What  is  it  that  you  wish  to 
say?" 

' '  I  can  learn  to  be  poor,  Mummy ! ' ' 

"You  could  learn  to  suffer  a  moderate  poverty,  dar- 
ling. Neither  of  us  doubt  that.  But  this  is  immoderate, 
quite  impossible.  And  it  is  better  to  make  an  end  once 
and  for  all.  I  shall  not  receive  Mr.  Middleton  or  permit 
the  subject  to  be  reopened ;  and  if  you  consider  us  in  the 


188  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

least,  you  will  not  disobey  us.  Daddy  is  much  upset 
already. ' ' 

"Does  he  care  whether  I  am?"  asked  Cynthia,  with 
mutinous  lips. 

"Rosemary!" 

"  I  'm  sorry,  Mummy ;  but  really  you  were  taking  me 
a  little  too  much  for  granted ! ' ' 

"Would  you  promise  to  give  the  boy  up  and  forget 
all  this  ? ' '  asked  Lady  Bremner,  ingratiatingly. 

"No,"  said  Cynthia.    "No,  Mother,  I  can't  do  that." 

' '  Isn  't  it  partly  that  you  won 't,  darling  ? ' ' 

"Oh,  it's  both!"  cried  Cynthia.  "Don't  you  remem- 
ber the  time  when  you  first  knew  Daddy  ?  I  'm  not  being 
a  silly  kid  about  Peter,  or  having  a  romantic  fit  as 
Phyllis  does  sometimes.  Really,  Mummy,  I  love  him  in  a 
grown-up  way." 

"I  hope  not,"  said  Lady  Bremner,  advancing  and 
kissing  her.  "Now  come  downstairs,  darling,  and  we'll 
be  just  as  usual  to  Daddy  and  cheer  him  up.  I  have 
mentioned  the  subject  for  the  last  time." 

Cynthia  did  not  think  that  her  father  showed  signs  of 
distress,  and  pride  forbade  her  to  do  so  either.  After 
dinner  she  played  to  her  parents  as  usual.  The  evening 
came  to  an  end.  She  was  kissed  and  sent  to  bed  at  half 
past  ten.  Many  evenings  in  the  past  had  resembled  this 
with  one  difference,  of  which  she  became  conscious  as 
soon  as  she  was  alone  in  her  room.  It  was  to  mark  many 
evenings  in  the  future. 

' '  What  a  dreary  feeling ! ' '  she  said  to  herself.  ' '  You 
are  inexperienced  in  suffering,  Cynthia!  I  suppose  this 
is  what  they  call  'heartache.'  " 


XXV 

JANUARY  and  February  of  the  year  1913  fled  swiftly 
away;  and  as  far  as  the  Bremner  household  was  con- 
cerned Peter  Middleton  ceased  to  exist.  He  was  never 
mentioned  after  the  day  when  Alan  dropped  in  and  told 
his  sister  with  marked  kindness  of  manner  that  he  had 
just  cut  young  Middleton  for  his  own  good.  It  was  a 
pity  the  parents  were  not  there,  for  they  might  have  been 
impressed.  Alan  was  shocked  by  Rose 's  upbraidings  and 
tears. 

Lady  Bremner  was  watchful,  and  gave  Cynthia  small 
opportunity  to  reflect  upon  the  future  or  the  past.  Her 
days  and  evenings  were  filled  with  a  constant  stream 
of  engagements.  During  a  fortnight  she  ate  no  meal  at 
home  save  breakfast,  and  danced  every  night.  She  had 
always  been  a  popular  girl  as  well  as  greatly  admired, 
and  this  season  she  had  an  enormous  success.  There  was 
a  brilliance  in  her  loveliness,  a  charm  born  of  happiness 
and  youth,  a  tender  allurement.  She  took  a  man 's  hand 
for  the  dance  and  swayed  into  his  clasp  with  so  enchant- 
ing a  readiness  and  grace  that  he  did  not  realise  he  was  a 
proxy  for  one  Peter  Middleton,  and  proposed  on  the 
slightest  acquaintance.  Which  surprised  and  annoyed 
her.  "They  don't  know  me!"  she  said.  "They  are 
rash!"  Luckily  Mummy  did  not  guess  the  matches 
she  refused.  Mummy  would  have  liked  to  see  her  a 
countess  or  the  wife  of  either  of  the  attaches  or  of  the  old 
Admiral  or  of  the  man  who  talked  about  Home  Rule. 
The  old  Admiral  was  rather  sweet,  and  not  quite  so 
impulsive  as  the  others.  It  would  have  been  quaint  if 
she  had  loved  him  instead  of  Peter,  and  much  more  con- 
venient !  Such  matters  must  be  arranged  by  Providence ; 
they  are  so  unmistakable  and  unexpected.  She  had 

189 


190  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

never  dreamed  of  loving  Peter.  Wanting  him  for  a 
friend  had  wasted  months  and  months  of  him,  dear 
Peter!  "Bother!  Here  comes  that  man  I  promised  to 
sit  out  with,  and  he  looks  stupid  already!" 

Peter's  letters  were  brought  direct  to  her  bedroom  in 
the  morning  by  Marie.  Her  mother  would  never  ques- 
tion the  maid,  she  knew,  and  the  correspondence  though 
open  remained  concealed.  Hasty  meetings  were  ar- 
ranged at  Baker  Street  Station.  The  dismal  strip  of 
green  off  Paddington  Street,  beyond  the  huge  block  of 
flats,  was  their  refuge  on  a  Saturday  afternoon,  secure 
from  any  friend  of  the  Bremners;  and  streets  and 
squares  on  the  way  home  saw  kisses  snatched  in  the  dark- 
ness. ' '  Peter,  we  know  people  here,  you  mustn  't !  .  .  .  I 
must  go  in,  Peter.  .  .  .  Yes,  I  do!"  Cynthia's  honesty 
was  tested  when  it  became  a  question  of  arranging  these 
escapades.  Barely  could  she  get  away  without  assigning 
a  reason.  Sometimes  she  boldly  declared,  "I'm  going 
out,  Mummy ! ' '  and  went ;  but  more  often  it  was  neces- 
sary to  have  a  pretext  ready,  the  truthfulness  of  which 
did  not  prevent  her  from  feeling  mean.  Occasionally 
when  she  needed  Peter  to  the  extent  of  yearning,  ached 
for  his  embrace  and  longed  to  hear  his  kind  voice  consol- 
ing a  silly  girl  who  cried  because  everyone  was  not  good 
to  her — occasionally  she  lied  outright.  Shaun  wrote 
after  one  such  tragedy,  Yours  to  hand  suggesting  you  are 
not  afraid  of  Hell,  but  deserve  that  it  be  created  to  re- 
ceive you.  My  dear  child,  you  are  there!  I  would  laugh 
at  your  remorse,  did  not  the  tears  come.  You  shame  me, 
as  Peter  does  now  and  then.  He  is  another  truth-teller, 
and  I  confess  I  regard  Truth  as  a  luxury  fatal  to  the 
intemperate,  and  only  to  be  entrusted  to  those  capable  of 
using  it  discreetly.  Your  people  were  engaged  in  pre- 
tending you  do  not  love  the  nonpareil.  They  stuck  their 
heads  in  the  sand,  affected  to  ignore  him.  It  was  a  pol- 
icy, though  a  foolish  one.  But  now  they  begin  to  wag 
their  tails,  a  fatal  proceeding.  They  advertise  their 
belief  in  your  seriousness  when  they  seek  to  control  your 
movements,  and  you  should  rejoice.  Also  they  break  a 
truce,  and  I  in  your  place  should  lie  furiously,  defying 


,THE  WINGS  OF  YOUTH  191 

them  to  doubt  my  word!  Like  Hilda  Wangel  I  have  a 
robust  conscience.  Yours,  dear,  is  not  sickly  but  dif- 
ferent, and  I  cannot  help  you.  You  must  settle  it  with 
God  yourself. 

As  Shaun  had  intended  and  expected,  she  asked  Peter. 

I  am  awfully  worried,  wrote  Peter.  Darling,  you  are 
sweet!  I  do  not  know  what  to  advise.  I've  told  enough 
bangers  in  this  beastly  hole  in  my  time!  Do  you  mind 
my  saying  ( beastly 'f  It  seems  the  only  word.  Dar- 
ling Cynthia,  I  feel  I  have  no  right  to  talk  to  anybody  as 
much  above  me  as  you  about  right  and  wrong.  It  would 
be  cheek!  Which  was  not  very  helpful,  either.  Cyn- 
thia's decision  was  feminine.  She  made  up  her  mind 
always  to  have  an  excuse  for  being  out  and  to  do  re- 
ligiously whatever  she  had  said  she  was  going  to  do,  but 
not  to  go  out  of  her  way  to  make  the  pretext  credible. 
Shaun  was  highly  amused. 

In  the  last  days  of  February,  Lady  Bremner,  who  had 
been  ailing  for  some  time,  became  seriously  run  down, 
fell  a  victim  to  influenza,  and  took  to  her  bed  with  a 
temperature  of  105.  She  was  nursed  by  Cynthia  de- 
votedly, but  made  a  slow  recovery  and  did  not  leave 
the  sick-room  until  after  Easter.  All  those  weeks  the 
girl  was  a  prisoner  in  the  house.  She  knew  that  her 
mother  would  hate1  to  see  a  strange  face  near  her,  and 
resolutely  declined  outside  assistance,  both  because  she 
was  extremely  fond  of  her,  and  because  she  welcomed  the 
chance  to  prove  herself  a  capable  woman.  If  Sir  Everard 
were  surprised  by  his  daughter's  endurance  and  capa- 
bility he  did  not  show  it.  He  thanked  and  praised  her 
after  the  corner  was  at  last  turned,  in  a  few  words  that 
touched  her  heart.  Cynthia  could  scarcely  remember 
another  occasion  on  which  Daddy  had  praised  her  except 
for  success  with  differential  equations.  It  was  not  his 
habit,  and  it  meant  a  great  deal  coming  from  him.  Not 
enough,  however,  she  decided  after  reflection,  to  justify 
her  in  reopening  the  subject  of  Peter.  After  all  Mummy 
had  not  been  dangerously  ill,  only  run  down  through 
taking  her  daughter  out  so  much!  She  really  did  not 
know  why  Dad  had  been  so  worried. 


192  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

True,  the  doctor  always  saw  Lady  Bremner  alone,  and 
was  never  communicative  to  Cynthia  about  the  patient's 
condition,  but  the  word  'influenza'  accounts  for  much 
to  a  young  and  healthy  girl,  and  it  was  freely  used  when 
Mummy  was  at  her  worst.  At  a  later  date  'nerves'  ex- 
plained the  patient's  continued  depression.  Her  fever- 
ish delusion  that  the  loss  of  her  eyesight  was  threatened 
had  not  persisted  after  her  temperature  went  down. 
Cynthia  had  wanted  to  bring  an  oculist,  and  the  offer  had 
magically  calmed  her  mother's  fears;  at  least  she  had 
not  complained  of  her  eyes  again.  Daddy  had  been  grave 
when  he  heard  of  this,  had  listened  without  comment  and 
did  not  return  to  the  subject  either.  It  seemed  natural 
to  Cynthia  afterwards  that  feverish  people  should  talk 
nonsense  and  worry  themselves  about  nothing.  She  was 
not  experienced  in  illness,  or  she  would  not  have  been 
alarmed  at  the  time,  she  thought.  Mummy  had  been 
impatient  when  she  suggested  an  oculist,  so  clearly  there 
had  been  nothing  to  fear.  Yes,  she  was  just  run  down 
and  needed  rest,  poor  Mummy !  Cynthia  did  not  blame 
herself,  did  not  consider  her  forbidden  engagement  at 
all  responsible  for  the  depression,  because  recollection 
told  her  that  the  change  in  her  mother  dated  from  before 
Tintagel.  She  had  been  languid  in  the  hot  weather;  in 
Brittany  she  had  not  cared  to  look  at  beautiful  places; 
in  town  she  had  often  seemed  tired  and  worried  for 
no  reason  at  all.  Yes,  she  had  undoubtedly  been  run 
down,  and  if  only  she  would  go  to  Switzerland  she 
would  get  well  quickly.  She  would  be  fit  to  travel  in 
May. 

In  May  Lady  Bremner  was  in  fact  much  recovered,  but 
she  firmly  refused  to  leave  London,  and  Cynthia  could 
not  help  feeling  relief  on  her  own  account.  Although  she 
loved  Switzerland,  the  prospect  of  losing  her  rare  meet- 
ings with  Peter  had  filled  her  with  selfish  terror.  More- 
over, now  that  Mummy  was  stronger  the  opportunities 
would  increase. 

Peter  had  worked  hard  during  these  months  of  separa- 
tion ;  both  at  the  office  in  the  daytime,  and  in  the  evening, 
under  the  superintendence  of  Shaun,  at  drawing.  He 


THE  WINGS  OF  YOUTH  193 

went  to  Heatherley  's  to  sketch  from  life,  and  studied  the 
technique  of  working  for  reproduction  under  an  old 
black-and-white  artist  to  whom  Shaun  had  recommended 
him,  saying, ' '  Gin  and  genius.  Once  genius  and  gin.  So 
soon  to  be  gin  only  that  you  must  learn  quickly,  Peter. ' ' 
The  lessons  were  not  a  pleasant  experience  in  themselves, 
but  what  he  learnt  from  them  was  invaluable. 

One  night  Peter  had  to  tell  Shaun  that  another  speci- 
men of  his  handwriting  was  required  on  the  morrow. 
He  seemed  cheerful  about  it,  indeed  for  once  he  gave 
quite  an  encomium  of  the  Great  Company — perhaps  be- 
cause he  had  received  his  salary  that  day  and  the  'jim- 
mieogoblins '  were  chinking  in  his  pocket.  "Lordly 
Laurence  has  his  eye  on  me,  but  I  don't  care  very 
much, ' '  he  declared.  ' '  My  work  is  all  right.  They  can 't 
complain  of  that." 

' '  They  can  continue  to  pass  you  over  for  promotion, ' ' 
remarked  Shaun. 

"Not  for  ever,"  said  Peter,  hopefully.  "And  I  'did 
down '  an  old  beast  called  Lemon  to-day.  He  was  trying 
to  get  me  into  trouble  and  failed. ' ' 

' '  Nice  chiefs  you  seem  to  have ! ' ' 

"Oh,  well!  Heads  of  Departments  aren't  usually 
chosen  for  their  power  of  inspiring  loyalty. ' ' 

' '  Not  with  you, ' '  said  Shaun,  with  dryness. 

1 '  Cynthia  writes  that  Laurence  Man  is  making  a  con- 
founded nuisance  of  himself  in  Portman  Square,"  said 
Peter,  suddenly  doleful.  "Always  making  up  to  Lady 
Bremner  now  that  she 's  getting  better.  She  simply  can 't 
get  rid  of  him  when  he  calls. ' ' 

"Which  she?" 

"Cynthia," 

"I  hope  she  does  not  try.  I  asked  her  for  your  sake 
to  put  up  with  Laurence  Man,  so  long  as  he  does  not 
openly  make  love  to  her,  Peter. ' ' 

Peter  was  not  pleased,  and  Shaun,  who  was  out  of 
humour,  rebuked  him  rather  sharply.  "Haven't  you 
sense  enough  to  know  you  ought  to  be  grateful  to  both  of 
us?"  he  exclaimed,  in  an  irritable  way.  "You  would 
sacrifice  your  pride  for  her — or  for  me,  for  the  matter  of 


194  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

that!    You're  a  bit  of  a  young  ass  sometimes."    Peter 
admitted  it. 

Cynthia  had  complained  of  Laurence  to  relieve  her 
feelings;  but  she  was  careful  in  practice  to  give  him  no 
cause  of  offence.  She  was  always  civil,  which  she  con- 
sidered more  than  he  deserved  after  his  treachery  to 
Shaun,  and  if  she  did  her  best  to  avoid  being  alone  with 
him  she  flattered  herself  that  he  was  not  aware  of  it. 
Wherein  she  underestimated  him.  Laurence  knew  per- 
fectly well  that  he  had  lost  whatever  power  he  possessed 
over  her.  He  was  not  Lady  Bremner's  confidence  in 
regard  to  Peter,  and  he  was  still  inclined  to  believe  in  the 
supremacy  of  Shaun.  Peter  was  altogether  too  insig- 
nificant in  Laurence's  eyes.  He  kept  a  watch  upon  his 
handwriting  partly  because  he  had  once  threatened 
Cynthia  that  Peter  should  suffer  for  the  privilege  of 
using  her  Christian  name,  partly  because  he  recognised 
the  absurdity  of  the  presence  of  men  of  his  type  and  class 
in  the  offices  of  the  Great  Company.  Laurence  never 
forgot  an  enmity,  but  he  was  not  dishonest  in  the  busi- 
ness sense  of  the  term.  If  Middleton  made  a  slip  and 
played  into  his  hands,  he  would  discharge  him  without 
mercy.  He  did  not  intend,  however,  to  manufacture  an 
excuse  to  get  rid  of  him,  unless  the  Directors  agreed  to 
his  scheme  of  the  gradual  elimination  of  all  public-school 
men  from  the  staff ;  '  all, '  of  course,  except  himself  and 
other  persons  who  had  entered  the  service  with  a  promise 
of  rapid  promotion.  Laurence  was  a  firm  believer  in  the 
divine  right  of  wealthy  gentlemen,  or  of  gentlemen  with 
connections  to  push  them  on,  to  be  rulers  of  the  world. 
Pride  made  him  dislike  seeing  any  of  his  class  in  a  subor- 
dinate and  hopeless  position;  and  as  an  official  he  de- 
spised what  he  called  'the  incompetence  of  discontented, 
muddle-headed  employes, '  that  is  to  say,  of  men  educated 
so  well  as  to  be  above  their  work  and  with  no  incentive 
such  as  the  prospect  of  early  promotion  to  cause  them 
to  bow  their  necks  to  the  yoke  willingly.  If  the  Directors 
fell  in  with  his  scheme  he  promised  himself  to  dispose  of 
the  lot,  one  after  the  other,  by  whatever  means  came  to 
hand,  and  to  reorganise  the  offices  on  a  sounder  basis. 


THE  WINGS  OF  YOUTH  195' 

Board-school  boys  would  actually  be  grateful  for  a 
smaller  salary  than  these  fellows  grumbled  at  now,  and 
they  would  leap  at  the  social  position  conferred  by  a 
clerkship  in  the  Great  Company,  which  was  a  tradition 
handed  down  from  the  '  good  old  times. '  He  would  have 
an  efficient  staff,  and  show  the  Directors  what  could  be 
done  with  it.  And  then  he  would  become  Managing 
Director  at  a  largely  increased  salary  for  that  post,  and 
marry  Rosemary  Bremner.  Peter  Middleton  was  only  a 
pawn  in  the  game  of  Laurence's  ambition.  If  he  could 
be  sacrificed  to  advantage  he  should  go,  but  the  wise 
player  does  not  force  exchanges  unless  he  is  certain  to 
improve  his  position.  Middleton,  however,  should  be  the 
first;  Laurence  mentally  promised  him  that. 

The  early  months  of  1913  saw  also  the  final  break 
between  Alan  Bremner  and  Helen  Taliesin,  who  disap- 
peared from  the  family  life  of  the  Bremners  suddenly 
and  without  overt  cause.  She  came  to  the  house  for  the 
last  time  in  March,  to  inquire  for  Lady  Bremner,  and 
would  not  enter.  After  that  she  merely  was  not.  Cyn- 
thia had  not  forgiven  her  brother  for  cutting  Peter  and 
displayed  no  curiosity  about  his  affairs.  It  struck  her, 
however,  as  intensely  odd  that  in  a  family  of  only  four 
people,  all  fond  of  each  other  and  on  terms  of  affection 
whenever  they  met,  there  should  be  a  mystery,  a  grudge, 
and  a  clandestine  love-affair!  The  more  polite  is  pa- 
rental tyranny,  Shaun  wrote  in  May,  the  more  subtly  is 
double-dealing  encouraged.  And  I  welcome  your  con- 
tinued animus  against  your  brother,  since  it  proves  you 
can  be  obstinate  too  (not  that  I  had  doubted!).  Peter 
does  not  report  that  you  are  becoming  callous,  selfish,  or 
'a  horrid  girl,'  so  I  cannot  but  believe  your  fears  un- 
founded. I  had  not  noticed  a  change  myself.  If  your 
people  complain — as  I  do  not  gather  they  have  done  up 
to  the  present — make  them  admit  that  they  have  hardly 
encouraged  you  to  display  your  true  self  or  your  better 
feelings.  I  am  sorry  they  do  not  treat  you  brutally,  for 
then  you  would  wear  your  engagement  ring  upon  your 
finger  instead  of  round  your  particularly  adorable  neck! 
(Old  habit,  and  a  love  of  sincerity!)  The  thought  of  it 


196  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

over  your  heart  must  encourage  Peter  to  impatience, 
serving  no  useful  purpose  thereby;  the  picture  of  it 
adorned  by  your  hand  would  warm  him  to  emulate  the 
open  courage  of  the  wearer.  Alas,  Cynthia,  you  are  a 
living  girl,  and  therefore  imperfect!  Not  as  I  should 
have  written  you.  The  silken  chains  hold  you  fast,  and 
your  mother's  illness  came  at  a  right  moment  for  her 
plans.  The  steadfast  wearing  of  that  ring  from  the  first 
would  have  saved  much  trouble  in  the  future,  I  fear, 
and  write  myself  down  an  ass  by  recording  the  bray. 
It  resembles  a  bray  in  being  a  useless  noise  unpleasing 
to  the  hearer.  So  does  my  counsel  to  demand  a  latchkey 
and  an  allowance  at  once,  with  in  the  future  a  wedding 
at  St.  George's  and  a  much  larger  allowance.  The  latch- 
key of  the  daughter  is  the  symbol  of  the  trust  of  the 
parent.  Every  girl  should  possess  one  and  rarely  use  it. 
Weep  daily  on  your  father's  waistcoat  until  you  obtain 
one,  is  my  advice.  Forgive  me,  dear,  if  I  make  things 
harder. 

Cynthia  burnt  the  letter,  and  cried.  She  knew  she  had 
not  the  courage  to  break  through  all  the  traditions  in 
which  she  had  been  brought  up.  For  the  rupture  with 
Helen  Taliesin  she  decided  that  she  blamed  Alan,  and 
wondered  what  she  would  do  if  she  met  the  girl,  an  event 
which  never  happened.  She  understood  now  why  she 
had  not  appealed  to  her  for  assistance  in  the  abortive 
struggle  for  freedom  by  way  of  employment.  She  had 
always  had  a  premonition  that  Alan  would  make  a  beast 
of  himself ! 


XXVI 

THE  second  period  of  Cynthia's  engagement  justified  to 
a  considerable  extent  Shaun  's  gloomy  forebodings.  Lady 
Bremner,  now  in  her  usual  health,  retained  the  habit  of 
nervous  dependence  upon  her  daughter,  and  was  un- 
willing to  let  her  go  out  of  her  sight.  Inwardly  ex- 
asperated, the  girl  was  still  not  able  to  be  openly  unkind, 
and  Lady  Bremner  was  so  wrapt  up  in  herself  that  she 
never  guessed  how  near  her  slave  came  several  times  to 
revolt.  She  had  in  truth  almost  forgotten  the  existence 
of  Peter,  and  her  plaintive  demand,  repeated  evening 
after  evening,  "Darling,  would  you  mind  talking  or 
reading  to  me  until  it's  time  to  dress?  I  think  I  ought 
to  rest  my  eyes,  which  feel  tired,"  had  actually  no  sub- 
tlety in  it,  which  Cynthia  found  incredible.  She  did  not 
know  anything  that  could  have  driven  Peter  from  her 
own  thoughts.  Besides,  her  mother  did  not  need  her ;  as 
was  proved  by  the  frequency  with  which  she  cheered  up 
again,  and  at  the  first  lapse  in  the  conversation  picked 
up  a  review  and  began  to  read. 

Very  bitterly  Cynthia  said  to  herself  sometimes  that 
she  was  in  the  position  of  a  paid  companion  without 
receiving  any  pay.  Other  people  suffered  for  her  weak- 
ness, her  soft-hearted  compliance  with  her  mother's 
whims.  Peter  only  admired  her  for  a  virtue  of  self-sacri- 
fice she  did  not  possess,  but  Madge  Tressly-Buchan,  who 
was  inconveniently  dependent  on  Cynthia's  influence, 
had  drifted  into  a  love-affair  with  a  chauffeur  who  was  a 
gentleman  and  a  bad  lot.  This  was  partly  spite  on 
Madge 's  part,  because  Lady  Bremner  had  declined  to  let 
her  train  Cynthia  for  the  ladies '  diving  championship  of 
the  Bath  Club.  She  had  threatened,  "All  right,  Lady 
Bremner.  I  shall  probably  make  a  fool  of  myself  thi? 

197 


198  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

summer,  but  that  doesn't  matter  to  you."  She  had  to 
be  packed  off  at  the  beginning  of  June  to  shoot  elephants, 
after  the  letters  had  been  ransomed.  Cynthia  lost  a  lot 
of  healthy  pleasure,  as  well  as  her  companionship, 
through  missing  the  mornings  at  the  swimming-bath,  and 
she  was  extremely  distressed  by  her  friend's  folly,  al- 
though she  did  not  attach  as  much  importance  to  it  as 
did  Lady  Bremner,  who  would  probably  in  the  future 
make  it  an  excuse  for  severing  the  friendship. 

The  firmest  stand  she  made  was  on  the  old,  vexed 
question  of  Shaun  James,  whom  she  insisted  on  meeting 
occasionally.  He  was  free  in  the  mornings,  or  said  he 
was  free,  and  gave  up  more  than  a  few  to  initiating 
Cynthia  into  the  knowledge  of  Man.  By  him  she  was 
enlightened,  very  pink  and  bright-eyed  on  a  windy  day 
at  the  Round  Pond,  as  to  the  physiology  of  marriage 
("You'd  better  tell  me,  Shaun  dear;  Mummy  never 
will ! ") .  And  in  the  galleries  of  the  Victoria  and  Albert 
Museum  she  learnt  wisdom  concerning  the  married  state 
for  which  she  blessed  him  in  after-years,  incidentally 
gathering  what  she  had  been  saved  from  by  refusing 
Laurence  Man.  Greatly  to  Shaun 's  amusement  he  was 
called  upon  to  perform  the  same  office  of  priest  of  the 
mysteries  to  Peter ;  and  to  neither  did  he  spare  his  own 
reputation.  Indeed  he  pictured  Doris  James  to  Cynthia 
as  a  most  unfortunate  woman  with  a  husband  only  faith- 
ful because  he  could  not  bear  to  cause  her  pain,  so 
alarmingly  did  he  represent  the  imagination  of  an  artist. 
Cynthia  smiled  and  only  half  believed,  but  the  half  was 
sufficient  for  Shaun 's  purpose.  When  the  subject  was 
finally  done  with,  "I'd  like  to  say  how  much  I  admire 
your  frankness  and  good  sense,"  he  said.  The  compli- 
ment pleased  Lady  Bremner 's  daughter  more  than  any 
other  he  had  paid  her.  She  wanted  to  be  wise,  and  was 
proud  that  she  had  forced  herself  to  be  brave. 

To  Peter  the  City  was  becoming  a  nightmare  place 
where  he  worked  as  on  a  treadmill,  harder  and  harder, 
without  ever  making  any  progress.  Indeed  the  more  he 
strove  for  promotion  the  more  swiftly  did  his  position 
glide  away  from  under  his  feet,  the  more  unpopular  did 


THE  WINGS  OF  YOUTH  199 

he  seem  to  become  with  the  High  Officials.  Only  Mr. 
Brown  remained  a  steady  friend.  He  could  always  be 
relied  upon  for  justice.  Peter  saw  others  as  well  as 
Blotter  pass  over  his  head,  and  began  to  make  strenuous 
attempts  to  get  a  secretaryship  to  a  public  company,  or 
any  kind  of  post  that  promised  a  better  salary  or  offered 
prospects  of  any  kind.  He  answered  advertisements  and 
made  the  acquaintance  of  adventurers  and  rogues.  Cyn- 
thia when  staying  with  the  Petos — Sir  Everard  and 
Lady  Bremner  had  gone  away  together  alone — confided 
in  her  aunt  and  uncle,  and  tried  to  persuade  the  latter 
to  use  his  influence  to  help  Peter.  She  wrote,  and  Peter 
read  aloud  to  Shaun,  "Aunt  Bertha  lives  for  her  gar- 
dens. She  has  fifteen  acres,  and  they  keep  her  busy! 
Even  if  they  did  not  exist  I  fear  she  would  not  go  against 
Mother.  Uncle  Tim  simply  won't  be  bothered,  Peter.  It 
is  mean  of  him,  because  he  must  have  any  amount  of 
power.  I  do  not  want  to  confide  in  Phyllis,  who  would 
certainly  cry  out,  'Let  him  dare  not  to!'  and  make  his 
life  a  burden — but  I  think  without  success.  He  would 
know  she  would  get  tired  of  bothering,  and  after  all  it 
isn't  for  her."  Shaun  said,  "That  little  Phyllis  as  the 
punishment  of  a  fat  old  Banker !  Ha !  There  is  an  ob- 
ject for  her  existence,  after  all." 

Peter  went  on  reading,  with  omissions:  "Joyce's  fa- 
ther and  mother  would  like  to  help  if  they  could.  I  be- 
lieve Auntie  Marjorie  has  written  to  Daddy,  but  I'm 
afraid  it  won't  move  him.  She  is  much  younger  than 
he.  They  will  not  be  home  from  India  until  the  end  of 
next  year!  Uncle  Rupert  expects  to  get  the  regiment 
then.  Dear  little  Joyce  wrote  me  the  kindest  letter  and 
sent  her  love  to  you.  You  did  not  mind  my  telling  her, 
Pet  erf" 

' '  The  more  the  better, ' '  said  Shaun. 

"I'm  afraid  the  Petos  are  no  good.  Cheer  up,  Peter. 
I'U  wait  for  ever,  and  call  myself  a  lucky  girl.  ..." 

"Groans!" 

"You  know  what  I  mean  .  .  .  she  says.  I  say,  I  can't 
read  any  more ! ' ' 

But  while  the  City  grew  abhorrent  and  threatening  to 


200  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

Peter  the  rest  of  London  was  frequently  illumined  with 
flashes  of  sunshine  which  were  meetings  with  Cynthia. 
She  was  away  for  a  fortnight  in  June  paying  the  above- 
mentioned  visit  and  for  three  weeks  in  August.  That 
was  all,  and  as  the  year  went  on  Peter  became  a  mas- 
ter of  the  topography  of  the  Metropolis,  regarded  as  a 
place  where  one  wants  to  kiss,  and  while  lamenting  the 
bareness  of  the  result  topolatrised  certain  hallowed 
spots ! 

London  had  become  the  background  in  his  thoughts  for 
moving  pictures  of  sweet  Cynthia,  clad  in  grey,  cream  or 
pale  blue,  brown,  white  or  navy  blue,  with  all  sizes  and 
shapes  of  hats.  .  .  .  Cynthia  in  Kensington  Gardens  on  a 
fresh,  spring  day ;  Cynthia  at  Hertford  House,  waiting 
for  him  in  front  of  a  group  of  Watteau's  ladies,  herself 
as  elegant  in  the  modern  fashion ;  Cynthia  on  her  way  to 
tea  in  Downing  Street;  Cynthia  before  shop  windows; 
Cynthia  reverent  in  the  gloom  of  churches.  With  the 
smallest  effort  of  his  imagination  he  could  see  tall  Cynthia 
standing  by  a  Sphinx  on  the  Embankment,  watching  the 
shifting  crisscross  of  lights  on  Waterloo  Bridge  and  the 
shiver  and  gleam  of  them  thrown  on  the  shadowy  water, 
her  graceful  neck  bent  as  she  listened  to  the  throbbing 
hum  of  distant  thoroughfares,  the  whirr  and  clank  of 
trams,  and  the  delicate  wash  and  lap  of  the  Thames 
against  the  steps.  He  could  feel  the  sway  and  barely 
perceptible  droop  of  her  shoulder  against  him,  as  her 
gloved  hand  was  met  by  his  in  the  darkness.  He  could 
see  the  straightening  of  her  slender  form  as  she  leant 
away.  And  then  there  was  a  picture,  with  too  many 
variants,  of  her  disappearing  into  a  taxi,  with  wistful 
grey  eyes  and  a  smile  on  her  lips ;  and  a  glimpse  of  her 
suddenly  tragic,  seen  through  the  open  window  and 
snatched  from  view,  leaving  a  horrid,  petrol-smelling 
vacancy  in  which  there  was  no  Cynthia ! 

Peter  removed  to  lodgings  in  Church  Street  in  order 
to  be  nearer  to  her.  He  started  a  pipe  and  strove  to  be- 
come a  philosopher.  Then  occurred  that  meeting  at  the 
Natural  History  Museum  when  they  almost  quarrelled 
over  her  answer  to  the  great  question  which  had  been 


THE  WINGS  OF  YOUTH  201 

worrying  him  for  weeks,  "Could  a  girl  of  her  beauty 
have  avoided  being  kissed  ? ' '  He  put  it,  before  a  ridicu- 
lous striped  monkey,  feeling  himself  of  the  same  tribe. 

' '  When  I  was  eighteen  and  just  out,  I  was  curious,  and 
silly  sometimes  like  other  girls.  Not  more  than  three 
times  then. ' ' 

"What  about  afterwards,  I  should  like  to  know?" 
asked  Peter,  indignantly. 

"You  aren't  jealous,  are  you,  Peter?"  said  Cynthia, 
knowing  well  that  he  was,  and  not  displeased.  ' '  I  never 
kissed  anyone  back!" 

"Certainly  not,"  he  asserted,  turning  red. 

"I  let  Laurence  Man  once.  I  know  I  was  a  perfect 
idiot.  Forgive  me,  please!" 

"Did  Shaun  ever  .  .  .   ?" 

"You've  no  right  to  ask  about  particular  people!" 
exclaimed  Cynthia,  spiritedly.  "No,  he  didn't,  if  you 
want  to  know.  I  should  never  dream  of  questioning  you, 
Peter!" 

"Who  else  besides  Man?" 

Silence. 

"Who  else?" 

Silence. 

"Who  else,  Cynthia?" 

"No  one." 

"You  were  the  first  girl  I'd  ever  kissed,"  said  Peter, 
thoughtfully.  "Let's  leave  my  brother  and  go  to  look 
at  the  whales.  That 's  the  quietest  room,  and  I  've  got  to 
go  on  my  knees  and  beg  your  pardon  for  ordering  you 
about." 

"You  needn't,"  said  Cynthia,  softly.  He  looked  at 
her.  Love  and  mischief  were  dancing  together  in  her 
eyes,  and  she  smiled.  He  did  not  wait  for  the  shelter 
of  a  whale,  but  then  neither  did  he  go  upon  his  knees ! 
Whilst  they  studied  the  Cetacea  (and  the  movements 
of  the  attendant),  she  told  him  that  he  must  never, 
never  give  way  to  her,  even  when  she  was  right.  The 
attendant  almost  caught  them  that  time ;  so  nearly  that 
they  fled  in  confusion  before  his  suspicious  glare  and 
did  not  venture  to  return  to  the  Museum  for  many  a 


202  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

long  month.  After  all,  it  contained  little  of  interest  ex- 
cept the  Cetacea. 

Cynthia  rarely  had  much  money  in  her  pocket  during 
these  expeditions,  and  Peter  had  to  supply  her.  He 
found  a  ridiculous  pleasure  in  so  doing.  They  lunched 
sometimes  at  Roche's,  on  a  Saturday,  when  Peter  could 
get  away  in  time  and  Cynthia  stifle  her  conscience. 
Shaun's  favourite  waiter  did  his  best  to  spoil  them  by 
little  attentions  and  swiftness  of  service  and  an  obvious 
pleasure  in  their  romance,  all  of  which  Cynthia  took  for 
granted  in  the  most  natural  way.  Many  of  their  meet- 
ings were  at  tea  time  at  'Alan's,'  in  the  little  top  room  to 
which  Shaun  had  introduced  her.  The  exit  at  the  foot 
of  the  staircase  past  the  boy  in  buttons  was  dangerous, 
as  Lady  Bremner  often  had  tea  at  Fuller's  in  Regent 
Street  and  might  easily  be  passing  on  her  way  home. 
She  sometimes  made  an  appointment  with  Cynthia  at 
Liberty's,  and  was  given  the  slip.  On  those  days  an  en- 
counter outside  '  Alan 's '  would  have  been  fatal !  Later, 
as  Cynthia  grew  more  bold,  she  arranged  her  rendez- 
vous nearer  at  hand  and  with  greater  frequency.  Deben- 
ham  and  Freebody's,  Self  ridge's,  outside  Mansell's,  a 
fascinating  shop-window  to  gaze  into  whilst  waiting  and 
a  favourite  haunt  of  Cynthia  and  Shaun,  and  Bumpus's, 
of  which  the  same  might  be  said,  were  favourite  spots 
for  an  apparently  accidental  meeting.  When  there  was 
necessity  for  extreme  caution,  in  other  words  when  Cyn- 
thia had  stretched  the  truth  in  order  to  escape,  she  usu- 
ally appointed  the  entrance  to  Tottenham  Court  Road 
Tube  Station,  opposite  the  Oxford.  It  was  quick  of  ac- 
cess and  out  of  the  range  of  her  mother,  but  she  was  so 
conspicuous  there  that  she  had  to  come  late,  in  order 
not  to  find  herself  alone.  As  a  rule  she  was  a  punctual 
girl. 

Once  they  ran  into  Shaun,  in  Greek  Street,  Soho. 
Once,  having  unwisely  ventured  to  the  Royal  Academy, 
Cynthia  was  recognised  in  Old  Bond  Street  afterwards 
by  an  acquaintance.  Fleeing  to  the  left  into  Grafton 
Street  they  fell  into  the  hands  of  Mrs.  Gwiney,  who 
remembered  Peter,  she  being  the  'sheathed  lily'  of  his 


THE  WINGS  OF  YOUTH  203 

first  dinner-party  at  the  Bremners',  and  insisted  on 
talking  and  reminding  him  that  she  had  played  Liszt. 
She  looked  arch  enough  to  have  added,  "while  you  were 
gazing  at  this  dear  girl. ' '  Evidently  she  had  sharp  eyes. 
When  they  escaped  from  her  it  did  not  seem  prudent  to 
turn  back  into  Bond  Street,  which  they  should  never 
have  left;  and  Cynthia,  now  reckless,  would  not  leave 
Peter,  so  they  plunged  down  Hay  Hill,  where  the  Prince 
Regent  and  his  brother  were  held  up  by  highwaymen 
and  could  only  raise  half-a-crown  between  them.  It 
was  at  least  as  perilous  to  the  lovers,  because  they  had 
to  pass  the  side  wall  of  the  Bath  Club.  No  one  was 
coming  out  of  the  ladies'  entrance  in  Berkeley  Street, 
and  Cynthia  breathed  again,  but  in  Berkeley  Square 
they  overtook  the  Countess  of  Kempston  walking  and 
had  to  double  back  and  take  a  taxi.  Peter  was  dropped 
in  Oxford  Street.  He  had  only  threepence  in  his  pocket, 
and  that  was  no  good  to  Cynthia,  who  was  penniless. 
She  was  reduced  to  bidding  the  maid  pay  the  man,  and 
hurrying  upstairs.  Lady  Bremner  was  out  as  it  hap- 
pened, but  had  she  been  at  home  Cynthia  would  never 
have  dared  to  approach  her,  for  fear  of  questions.  It 
was  two  days  before  she  could  settle  with  the  maid,  so 
short  of  money  did  her  parents  keep  her. 

The  Whitehall  and  Pall  Mall  districts  were  barred  be- 
cause of  Sir  Everard  and  Alan,  and  the  Zoo  was  dan- 
gerous because  of  the  former.  At  the  Tate,  which  had 
been  the  topic  of  their  first  conversation,  Peter  learnt 
that  Cynthia  could  be  petulant  and  saucy,  but  she  as- 
sured him  that  the  mood  only  happened  about  twice  a 
year !  In  the  upstairs  room,  before  The  Seeds  of  Love, 
she  announced  her  resolution  to  give  up  taxis  in  order 
to  practice  herself  and  to  save  the  fares.  The  presence 
of  the  attendant  could  not  prevent  Peter  kissing  her  fin- 
gers, which  he  did  with  fervour,  just  unperceived !  After 
this  it  was  he  who  waved  to  taxis,  '  for  solitude, '  usually 
in  celebration  of  the  sale  of  a  drawing,  which  Shaun 
permitted  now  and  again,  although  he  declared  that  the 
doors  of  journalism  should  be  burst  open,  not  pushed, 
and  that  Peter  must  not  be  in  a  hurry. 


204  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

Nothing  further  was  heard  of  the  unlucky  encounters 
in  Mayfair,  and  soon  Cynthia  beamed  on  the  City,  shin- 
ing starlike  against  a  background  of  black  coats  and 
gloomy  faces.  She  inspected  St.  Bartholomew's,  Smith- 
field,  drank  from  the  fountain  outside  the  Royal  Ex- 
change because  she  liked  the  figure  above  it,  and  wan- 
dered round  the  interior  of  the  Exchange,  exclaiming  at 
the  badness  of  some  of  the  mural  paintings  contrasted 
with  the  Brangwyn,  the  Leighton,  and  the  Abbey.  This 
visit  was  cut  untimely  short  by  the  appearance  of  Sem- 
ple,  who  luckily  did  not  perceive  them  where  they  stood 
back  in  the  shadow  beside  the  Admiralty  notices.  The 
prospect  of  lewd  jests  daunted  Peter,  for  if  he  were  pro- 
voked to  knock  the  jester  down  that  would  be  the  end 
of  all  things  so  far  as  the  Great  Company  was  con- 
cerned. He  rather  chose  retreat,  and  at  ease  on  a  'bus, 
they  read  together  the  Certificate  of  Character  she  had 
brought  him  in  a  letter  from  the  household  of  Welsh 
girls.  We  cannot  say  that  C.  R.  B.  is  never  a  cat.  She 
is  distinctly  human.  But  we  will  say  that  she  is  always 
a  nice  cat,  and  thoroughly  repentant  afterwards.  They 
got  off,  and  walked  round  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields  to  dis- 
cuss it. 

Peter  heard  little  of  the  full,  active  life  of  dances, 
theatres,  and  dinners  which  she  led  apart  from  him. 
He  did  not  even  know  that  during  the  autumn  she  was 
swimming  and  diving  every  day  at  the  Bath  Club. 
Nothing  could  indicate  more  clearly  the  separateness  of 
their  existences  than  the  fact  that  she  never  once  thought 
of  telling  him  of  her  great  disappointment  when  Madge 
Tressly-Buchan  was  prevented  from  training  her  through 
Lady  Bremner's  interference.  Besides,  Cynthia  would 
not  criticise  her  mother  to  Peter,  although  she  felt  very 
much  inclined  to  after  Madge  had  departed  disconso- 
lately abroad.  It  was  all  too  foolish.  She  could  see  no 
harm  whatever  in  diving  at  a  private  competition  from 
which  the  Press  was  rigorously  excluded,  and  Madge 
would  never  have  been  so  foolish  had  Cynthia  been  meet- 
ing her  daily  at  the  Club.  Lady  Bremner  was  wrong 
in  supposing  she  had  the  smallest  influence  over  Cyn- 


THE  WINGS  OF  YOUTH  205 

thia.  On  the  contrary  the  big,  sullen,  impulsive  crea- 
ture was  a  baby  in  the  hands  of  her  self-possessed  friend. 
Cynthia  was  one  of  the  few  people  who  could  do  any- 
thing with  her  when  she  got  into  one  of  her  passions  or 
fits  of  obstinacy.  She  felt  herself  responsible  for  Madge, 
and  was  mortified  as  well  as  distressed  by  the  unfortu- 
nate affair  with  the  chauffeur.  Then  the  moment  Madge 
was  gone  Mummy  had  said,  "Why  don't  you  go  to  the 
Bath,  darling,  and  have  a  swim  ?  You  are  looking  quite 
pale." 

It  is  the  drawback  of  a  forbidden  engagement,  as  of  a 
secret  one,  that  intimacy  is  slow  of  growth  when  the 
girl  has  pride  which  the  man  respects  and  does  not  try 
to  conquer.  Peter  liked  her  sweet  letters,  gossip-less 
and  to  the  point — she  was  too  busy  to  be  a  voluminous 
writer — but  he  would  have  enjoyed  them  more  had 
they  told  something  about  her  daily  life.  He  did  not 
admit  this  to  himself.  His  idol  could  do  no  wrong.  Still, 
he  wrote  very  different  epistles  in  return.  Shaun,  who 
was  in  a  position  to  judge,  complained  that  he  had 
taught  Cynthia  to  describe  and  now  she  would  not  do 
it.  Peter,  on  the  other  hand,  whose  descriptive  powers 
were  of  the  smallest,  laboured  long  and  manfully  to  give 
pictures  of  the  Company.  The  resulting  confusion  Cyn- 
thia laughed  and  cried  over.  It  was  impossible  to  praise 
his  literary  efforts.  But  when  he  was  not  trying  to  de- 
scribe he  wrote  charmingly. 

On  one  occasion  only  did  they  get  a  whole  day  to- 
gether— in  the  late  autumn ;  and  they  spent  it  at  Hamp- 
ton Court.  Cynthia  walked  boldly  out  of  the  house 
without  saying  whither  she  was  going,  and  telephoned 
that  she  would  not  be  in  to  lunch.  This  was  Shaun 's 
advice,  acted  upon  desperately  in  order  not  to  lose  the 
opportunity  of  Peter's  leave.  All  day  her  cheeks  were 
pink,  all  day  Peter's  eyes  followed  her  every  move- 
ment, worshipping.  He  lost  their  tram  tickets  and  had 
to  buy  others,  the  waiter  gave  him  wrong  change  unre- 
buked;  it  was  an  expensive  outing.  But  what  a  back- 
ground the  grey  walls  of  the  palace  and  the  old  gardens 
and  the  tapestries  and  weaponed  halls  made  for  his  dar- 


206  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

ling!  Those  were  happy  hours  of  youth,  and  a  happy 
rush  back  on  the  outside  of  the  tram  in  the  chill  breeze 
of  the  evening,  their  hands  clasping  each  other  under 
her  great  white  muff.  Cynthia  had  not  really  meant 
to  tell  the  truth  if  questioned,  but  she  came  in  bold; 
Lady  Bremner,  however,  took  it  for  granted  she  had 
been  at  the  Kempstons'  and  failed  to  comment,  so  the 
opportunity  for  martyrdom  was  lost.  Peter  had  gath- 
ered something  of  the  truth  that  day,  and  was  puzzled 
how  Cynthia  managed  to  keep  on  good  terms  with  her 
mother  seeing  the  constant  state  of  supervision  in  which 
her  life  was  passed.  Shaun  told  him,  "It  is  because 
all  is  above  board.  Lady  Bremner  does  not  spy.  She 
doesn't  make  a  confidante  of  her  maid.  She  is  not 
mean.  She  annoys  Cynthia  in  trifles  without  alienating 
her  affection." 

Peter  was  inclined  to  want  more,  so  Shaun  who  was 
in  a  jealous  mood  barked  at  him,  "Girls  are  different 
from  men,  Peter!"  and  shut  him  up.  The  truth  was 
that  silence  and  reserve  had  become  so  habitual  with 
both  mother  and  daughter  that  it  seemed  well-nigh 
impossible  to  break  either  into  open  mutiny  or  open 
censure.  Lady  Bremner  discovered  that  Rosemary  had 
not  been  at  the  Kempstons',  but  she  never  said  a  word. 


XXVII 

CYNTHIA  saw  the  Old  Year  out  in  Edinburgh  and  made 
brisk  resolutions.  Her  engagement  had  lasted  twelve 
months  and  was  no  nearer  to  recognition.  Yet  she  felt 
cheerful.  ' '  Hope  is  the  daughter  of  discontent  and  good 
health,"  said  Shaun,  when  she  told  him.  Cynthia 
pointed  out  that  he  was  responsible  to  a  large  extent 
for  her  confidence,  and  this  was  true.  When  Peter 
was  most  despondent,  Shaun  remained  optimistic  con- 
cerning the  selling  qualities  of  his  work,  exhorting  him 
not  to  be  in  a  hurry.  He  replied  now,  "Keep  your 
resolve  and  wear  your  ring,  Cynthia.  That  is  the  way 
to  help  things  on."  In  private,  Shaun  was  disquieted 
by  the  steadiness  of  the  parents'  opposition  and  the 
excellent  terms  on  which  they  lived  with  Cynthia.  He 
would  have  liked  them  made  uncomfortable  every  hour 
of  the  day  by  the  sight  of  a  declining,  fading,  pathetic 
child.  Cynthia  had  never  looked  better  in  her  life.  Or 
they  should  have  been  attacked  by  means  of  constant 
disobedience,  quiet  but  open,  in  the  form  of  refusal  to 
ignore  the  engagement  and  the  claims  of  Peter  upon  the 
girl's  time.  Not  that  he  wished  Cynthia  to  imitate  the 
insolence  of  so  many  modern  daughters.  He  neither 
desired  this  nor  thought  it  possible.  He  had,  though, 
apparently  overrated  her  fighting  courage,  or  else  under- 
estimated the  strength  of  her  affection  for  her  parents, 
and  he  frankly  admitted  that  Sir  Everard  was  victor  of 
the  first  year's  struggle.  There  was  no  earthly  reason 
why  the  latter  should  consent  to  an  engagement  of 
whose  existence  he  was  never  reminded,  or  make  the 
sacrifices  necessary  to  provide  Cynthia  with  an  adequate 
allowance  while  there  remained  any  hope  at  all  that  she 
would  forget  Peter.  The  father  misjudged  the  girl's 

207 


208  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

seriousness,  just  as  he,  Shaun,  had  failed  to  allow  for 
the  lack  of  combativeness  in  her  nature. 

When  Cynthia  announced  her  intention  of  learning  to 
cook,  "Any  caprice  but  the  fatal  one!"  spoke  her 
mother's  eyes  as  she  gave  permission,  which  she  did  in 
hasty  retreat  from  the  room.  Her  voice  had  said, 
"Many  young  girls  are  beginning  to  learn,  they  tell 
me."  Cynthia  could  not  help  being  amused  when  she 
found  that  the  pose  of  the  moment  had  deprived  her  of 
all  appearance  of  rebellion!  She  was  in  the  fashion 
without  intending  it — the  consequence  of  four  weeks 
in  Edinburgh  among  sensible  people,  who  did  not  take 
up  new  fads  with  sudden  enthusiasm  only  to  abandon 
them  with  equal  celerity.  Smiling,  she  confessed  defeat, 
and  learnt  to  cook  Peter  a  seven-course  dinner.  Her 
family  made  no  remarks  on  her  perseverance. 

One  evening  Cynthia  appeared  at  dinner  with  a 
slender  gold  chain  round  her  bare  neck  and  disappearing 
into  the  bosom  of  her  dress.  No  notice  was  taken  at 
the  time;  but  that  night  Lady  Bremner  came  to  her 
room  after  she  was  in  bed.  The  girl  was  wearing  a 
nightdress  which  was  cut  somewhat  low,  and  again  the 
chain  was  visible.  Acting  on  impulse  she  drew  her  ring 
from  its  hiding-place  and  held  it  up. 

"What  would  you  and  Daddy  do  if  I  wore  that 
always  on  my  finger?"  she  asked,  too  nervously. 

Lady  Bremner  had  not  really  the  faintest  idea  what 
they  would  do,  but  she  was  quite  certain  that  Daddy, 
having  once  declared  against  the  engagement,  would  be 
immovable  as  a  rock — that  was  the  conception  she  had 
of  her  husband ;  she  was  horrified  at  its  being  suggested 
that  he  could  change.  She  said  firmly,  "I  am  sure 
Daddy  would  send  you  away,  darling!  He  would  send 
you  to  Aunt  Marjorie  in  India."  The  readiness  of  the 
answer  deceived  Cynthia  completely.  Her  eyes  filled 
with  tears  and  the  corners  of  her  pretty  mouth  began 
to  droop.  Lady  Bremner  kissed  her  hastily  and  fled, 
conscious  of  a  victory,  possibly  decisive.  She  had 
indeed  done  much  harm,  as  well  as  conquered  any  desire 
on  her  daughter's  part  to  rebel  openly.  Cynthia  would 


THE  WINGS  OF  YOUTH  209 

have  loved  to  see  India,  she  was  extremely  fond  of  her 
aunt  and  uncle;  but  then  she  was  much  more  fond  of 
Peter  and  Shaun  and  her  parents,  and  to  leave  them  all 
for  an  indefinite  period  seemed  to  her  an  unbearable 
prospect.  She  judged  her  father  quite  capable  of  execut- 
ing the  threat,  and  Alan  would  back  him.  She  was  still 
on  cool  terms  with  Alan,  who,  since  Miss  Taliesin's 
disappearance,  had  become  more  and  more  his  father's 
confidant. 

Peter  heard  and  groaned.  Shaun  heard  and  whistled. 
Twenty  years  ago  he  would  have  interfered,  for  he  was 
not  at  all  lacking  in  self-confidence;  he  could  certainly 
have  made  the  situation  clearer  to  Sir  Everard  than  it 
appeared  to  be  at  present.  However  he  was  over  forty, 
and  reserved  himself  for  a  greater  crisis.  Peter 's  groans 
were  stifled  by  being  asked,  unexpectedly,  to  the  Coun- 
tess of  Kempston's  small  dance,  at  which  Cynthia  and 
Phyllis  were  to  be  present,  and  not  Lady  Bremner; 
Phyllis  having  good-naturedly  procured  him  an  invita- 
tion by  saying  he  could  tango.  Peter  had  three  weeks 
in  which  to  acquire  the  art.  After  the  first  lesson  he 
would  have  called  three  months  insufiicient! 

A  dance  in  Carlton  House  Terrace  was  a  new  experi- 
ence for  Peter.  He  realised  from  the  moment  of  enter- 
ing the  ballroom  that  Cynthia  was  popular  in  society; 
he  found  her  surrounded  by  men,  whom  she  dispersed 
cleverly  in  order  to  greet  him.  The  sight,  which  might 
have  stirred  his  blood,  was  humbling.  Any  one  of  these 
men  could  have  given  her  so  much!  He  murmured  it, 
prefaced  by  an, ' '  I  say, ' '  boyishly  eager.  She  answered, 
"So  much  that  I  do  not  want!"  Then  the  daughter 
of  the  house,  a  pale  blonde  who  had  a  'devotion'  for 
Phyllis,  descended  upon  him  and  carried  him  off. 

A  hidden  string  band  struck  up  magical  'Sourire 
d'avril,'  the  only  tune  to  which  Lord  Kempston  could 
dance,  which  therefore  always  opened  the  programme 
at  his  house.  A  partner  had  not  been  found  for  Peter. 
Phyllis  flitting  by,  vivid  in  yellow  and  scarlet,  nodded 
and  smiled.  But  Peter  was  looking  for  Cynthia.  Here 
she  came,  valsing  in  the  old  style  most  beautifully.  He 


210  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

noticed  now  how  she  was  dressed,  admired  her  frock  of 
black  and  silver  with  a  kind  of  gauzy  jacket  that  floated 
from  her  white  arms  as  she  circled.  Her  pretty  slippers 
were  black  and  silver.  They  twinkled  on  the  shining 
floor.  She  vanished  into  the  throng,  her  starry  eyes 
alight  with  youth  and  swift  movement,  a  straight-backed, 
willowy  girl,  with  the  loveliest  arms  and  the  slenderest 
ankles  in  the  world  of  girls. 

The  next  was  the  dreaded  tango,  out  of  fashion,  but 
still  the  rage  at  Kempston  House.  Peter's  partner  was 
more  incompetent  than  himself  and  soon  elected  to 
watch.  Little  Phyllis  and  a  slender  horse-faced  man — 
like  a  knight  at  chess — were  the  most  conspicuous  couple. 
The  girl  at  Peter's  side  remarked  rather  cattishly,  "Miss 
Peto  told  me  tango  was  becoming  to  a  flexible  figure. 
She  said:  'So  I  tang!'  She  does,  doesn't  she?"  It 
was  almost  an  epigram.  To  his  surprise — though  why  ? 
— Peter  perceived  Cynthia  skilfully  and  gracefully  per- 
forming the  difficult  dance.  "How  little  I  know  about 
her  everyday  life!"  he  thought.  "Now  there's  a  girl 
I  really  do  admire!"  said  his  partner,  who  prided  her- 
self on  her  quick  observation.  Peter  withdrew  into  a 
shell  of  small  talk. 

His  dances  with  Cynthia  were  heaven;  his  struggles 
with  Phyllis,  the  reverse.  She  called  it  teaching  him. 
Phyllis  was  now  a  cynic,  and  informed  him,  "I  shall 
probably  go  to  the  bow-wows. ' '  She  was  huffed  because 
his  denial  lacked  proper  fervour,  but  suddenly  changed 
to  sweetness  and  coaxing,  "You  don't  really  think  I 
shall,  Peter  ? ' '  He  was  honest  in  his  reply,  ' '  Of  course 
not!"  Phyllis  had  kept  up  a  kind  of  correspondence 
with  Peter,  mostly  on  her  side,  seldom  evincing  a  genuine 
interest  in  him  or  his  affairs ;  and  he  could  have  named 
her  phases  of  a  year.  First,  Koman  Catholicism,  with 
the  religion  omitted;  then  yearnings,  with  bad  poetry; 
then  a  literary  mania,  during  which  she  asked  a  thousand 
questions  about  Shaun  ("Cheek!"  thought  Peter),  al- 
ways referring  to  him  exasperatingly  as  "Ye  pathetic 
Shaun ! ' '  Now  it  was  cynicism. 

This  chance  meeting  with  his  darling  suggested  the 


THE  WINGS  OF  YOUTH  211 

possibility  of  others,  and  accordingly  Shaun  procured 
tickets  for  a  Fancy  Dress  Revel  which  he  thought  Cyn- 
thia might  like  to  attend.  The  result  was  tragic.  Lady 
Bremner  discovered  that  Peter  was  to  be  present  and 
imposed  her  veto  on  the  entertainment  at  the  last 
moment  because  of  the  "queer  people  who  might  be 
there."  She  promised  that  Cynthia's  dress,  'Burne- 
Jones,'  should  not  be  wasted,  which  did  not  console  the 
victim  in  the  least.  Cynthia  dissolved  into  tears  out- 
right, like  a  child  of  ten.  She  was  tired  and  overwrought 
from  a  succession  of  entertainments;  perception  of 
which  assisted  her  mother  to  be  firm.  It  was  a  fact 
that  the  girl  needed  rest,  and  Lady  Bremner  was  genu- 
inely unconscious  of  not  giving  her  the  sympathy  that 
she  needed  more. 

' '  I  thought  my  choice  of  costume  would  have  disarmed 
the  woman, ' '  said  Shaun.  ' '  Could  anything  be  more  con- 
ventional than  Mephistopheles  ?  He  must  be  a  simple- 
hearted  ass  who  would  wear  that. ' ' 

Peter  grinned  in  spite  of  himself.  "Nothing  could 
make  you  look  a  simple-hearted  ass,  Shaun. ' ' 

' '  So  it  appears.  I  am  suspected  of  vulgar  appropriate- 
ness and  a  Faust  is  deduced.  Through  the  indiscre- 
tion of  Phyllis  Peto,  no  doubt!  It  will  be  a  shame  if 
that  girl  does  not  engage  herself  to  a  midshipman,  be- 
cause the  Banker  will  miss  a  priceless  opportunity  of 
quoting  from  'Peter  Pan/  'Me  poor  lad!  Me  innocent 
little  tarpaulin!'  ' 

On  the  night  Phyllis  denied  the  accusation  warmly. 
If  she  had  given  away  the  secret  she  had  already  forgot- 
ten the  fact.  She  was  attired  as  a  snake  in  scaly  tights, 
becoming  to  her  lean  grace  of  outline, — Peter  heard 
her  described  as  "a  black-haired,  slender,  fine-limbed 
young  devil,  pretty  as  they  make  'em. ' '  He  was  wearing 
a  modest  domino.  Phyllis,  surrounded  by  a  group  of 
men,  danced  a  solo  dance  and  afterwards  tied  herself 
into  snaky  knots  on  the  floor.  Two  or  three  of  the 
spectators  were  the  worse  for  drink  and  their  comments, 
free  and  easy  and  familiar,  did  not  please  her  in  the 
least.  However,  it  is  impossible  to  look  scornful  or 


212  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

dignified  on  the  floor  with  your  ankles  crossed  behind 
your  neck  and  your  hair  coming  down,  which  was  Phyl- 
lis's  condition  when  Shaun  and  Peter  shoved  their  way 
into  the  circle.  She  was  beginning  to  be  a  little  fright- 
ened, for  Phyllis  was  not  really  what  an  admirer  had  just 
in  a  loud  voice  declared  her  to  be,  namely  'hot  stuff'; 
her  extremely  reckless  looks  and  behaviour  belying  an 
essential  innocence.  She  was  naughty,  but  not  bad. 

The  scene,  which  was  becoming  unpleasant,  was  ended 
by  a  large  man  in  huntsman 's  pink  bursting  through  the 
ring  of  spectators  and  picking  her  up  in  his  arms  as  she 
was,  without  waiting  for  her  to  undo  herself,  and  bearing 
his  capture  triumphantly  away.  Peter  recognised  him  as 
the  occupant  of  the  box  on  the  night  of  his  engagement, 
and  deduced  from  his  present  expression  that  the  actress 
he  was  then  pursuing  had  ceased  to  interest  him. 

"That's  the  type  of  chap,"  said  Shaun  in  his  ear, 
"who  when  he's  ancient  becomes  an  'old  buffer.'  I  like 
him.  I  hope  he  will  spank  her,  and  that  she  will  continue 
to  refuse  him  for  the  reason  that  he  is  twice  her  age. 
He  will  take  the  greatest  care  of  her,  because  she's  a 
lady  and  he  loves  her;  but  if  she  were  not  a  lady  and 
he  loved  her  he  would  take  no  care  of  her  at  all. ' ' 

' '  You  know  him,  then  ? ' '  asked  Peter,  innocently. 

' '  Not  from  Adam, ' '  replied  Shaun.  ' '  A  landowner,  I 
should  say.  Major  of  cavalry.  Yeomanry,  of  course. 
Hearty  fellow." 

' '  He  is  a  landowner, ' '  said  Peter, ' '  I  think  I  remember 
Cynthia  telling  me."  When  he  came  across  Phyllis 
next  he  tried  to  discover  whether  Shaun  had  guessed 
right  in  regard  to  the  stranger's  majority.  It  seemed  too 
wonderful  to  Peter!  But  Phyllis  neither  knew  nor 
cared.  "Oh,  he's  all  right!"  she  dismissed  the  subject 
with,  rather  consciously.  As  for  warnings  she  would 
have  none  of  them.  "Insult  me!"  she  exclaimed, 
"Let  them  dare.  You  are  a  silly  boy,  Peter.  Because 
you're  engaged  to  a  beauty  you  think  you  know  every- 
thing!" Peter  retired,  hurt.  He  had  been  deadly 
shocked  at  Phyllis,  much  more  so  than  Shaun,  who  al- 
lowed pretty  girls  a  bohemian  latitude  in  behaviour, 


THE  WINGS  OP  YOUTH  213 

did  not  disapprove  of  tights,  rather  liked  contortionists, 
and  called  flirting  good  for  the  young. 

Before  leaving  the  hall  Peter  encountered  Phyllis 
again,  and  would  have  passed  her  by,  but  she  insisted 
on  his  being  friendly  as  she  called  it,  which  meant  that 
he  had  to  listen  to  all  she  knew  about  Mr.  Adams — for 
this  was  the  name  of  her  rescuer — his  position,  which 
was  excellent,  and  his  not  unamiable  character.  She 
ended  up  with,  "But  I  mustn't  discuss  him,  Peter, 
because  he  wants  to  marry  me,  and  it  wouldn't  be 
nice!" 

"Girls  lick  everything!"  Peter  informed  Shaun. 

"Ahem!  They  aren't  good  subjects  for  generalisa- 
tion," observed  Shaun,  drily.  "I've  told  you  that  be- 
fore." 

' '  She  liked  talking  about  him.    I  noticed  that. ' ' 

"Poor  Adams!  He  is  a  major.  I've  found  that  out. 
Now  away  to  bed,  Peter. ' ' 

"I'm  going  to  walk  through  Portman  Square  first. 
Will  you  come?" 

"Oh,  youth!"  But  he  came,  and  saw  the  dawn  tint 
the  pavement  in  front  of  Cynthia's  home. 

A  photograph  of  Phyllis,  entitled  A  Society  Girl  as  a 
Serpent,  appeared  in  one  of  her  favourite  sixpenny 
weeklies,  to  the  unspeakable  horror  of  her  aunt.  The 
paper  asked  for  a  portrait  in  evening  dress,  and  got  it. 
This  started  Phyllis  on  a  craze  for  notoriety,  and  she 
went  in  wildly  for  flying,  while  her  Major  steadily  lost 
weight.  At  this  time  Cynthia  and  Peter  began  to  meet 
at  Shaun 's  rooms,  a  symptom  of  desperation.  It  came 
out  there  one  day  that  Laurence  Man  had  discovered  the 
secret  engagement.  Cynthia  revealed  this  innocently 
in  the  course  of  conversation. 

"How?"  asked  Shaun,  before  Peter  could  speak. 
"Through  the  Revel.     He  saw  I'd  been  crying,  and 
Mother  told  him  why." 

' '  You  are  sure  he  did  not  know  before  ? ' ' 

"Quite.    Mother  said  he  won't  trouble  me  again." 

Peter  and  Shaun  glanced  at  each  other.    Shaun  said : 


214  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

"He  knows  you  better  than  your  parents  do,  Cynthia, 
after  all." 

In  a  tone  that  gave  no  clue  to  her  feelings,  Cynthia 
stated,  "Mother  was  angry  with  me.  She  did  not 
understand  Laurence. ' ' 

"Come,  now,  let's  have  an  end  of  this,"  said  Shaun. 
"Answer  me  a  few  questions,  children,  will  you?  and 
then  I'll  make  a  speech.  I've  got  to  relieve  my  mind 
somehow. ' ' 

Peter  saw  that  Cynthia's  grey  eyes  were  dewy.  He 
answered  for  her.  ' '  Ask  away,  old  Shaun. ' ' 

"What  is  your  income,  Peter?" 

"One  hundred  and  twenty-five  pounds,  excluding 
drawings.  Not  much,  is  it?" 

' '  I  did  not  ask  for  comments.    Private  means  ? ' ' 

' '  Thirty  pounds  in  the  bank. ' ' 

"Rich  relatives?" 

"None  any  good." 

"I  tell  you  I  don't  want  your  comments,"  barked 
Shaun  in  his  most  irritated  voice.  "Rich  rela- 
tives?" 

"I  have  one  aunt,  my  father's  sister  Janet,  who  has 
seven  or  eight  hundred  a  year.  She  is  a  very  clever 
woman  of  business  and  made  most  of  it  herself  on  the 
Stock  Exchange.  She  spends  very  little,  I  believe. ' '  He 
stopped  short. 

"Go  on,  you  exasperating  fellow.  You  mean  she's 
crabbed  and  hard-headed,  and  I  can  guess  she  did  not 
live  on  good  terms  with  your  father,  whom  she  prob- 
ably despised,  but " 

' '  Oh,  I  say,  not  despised ! ' '  interrupted  Peter. 

"  — but  I  wish  to  know  your  own  relations  with  her. 
When  did  you  see  her  last  ? ' ' 

' '  When  I  was  about  three  years  old ! ' ' 

"When  did  you  last  hear  from  her  and  from  what 
address  ? ' ' 

"She  writes  every  Christmas  from  Bath,  sends  a 
postal  order  for  ten  shillings  and  tells  me  to  acknowledge 
receipt  on  a  post-card,  as  she  can't  be  bothered  reading 
letters."  Cynthia  laughed  irrepressibly ;  and  when  she 


THE  WINGS  OF  YOUTH  215 

rippled  suddenly  like  that  every  single  person  in  the 
room  had  to  join  in. 

"I  don't  know  what  we  are  all  grinning  about,"  said 
Shaun  at  last. 

"  I  'm  laughing  at  you,  Shaun  dear, ' '  she  said.  ' '  Your 
fairy  godmother  is  so  badly  cast!  Peter  was  quite 
right;  now,  wasn't  he?" 

"Quite  right  to  love  you.  Not  necessarily  wise  in 
neglecting  his  rich  aunt,  Cynthia. ' ' 

Peter  protested:  "What  on  earth  can  I  do,  Shaun? 
She  doesn't  want  to  have  anything  to  do  with  me. 
She  never  answers  my  letters,  and  I  've  given  up  writing 
to  her  since  Father  died.  She  did  not  come  to  the 
funeral.  Aunt  May  arranged  everything;  and  she  died 
soon  after  him  and  left  her  money  to  a  hospital. ' ' 

"Is  Aunt  Janet  the  only  relation  you've  got?" 

"Practically." 

"Stand  down,  witness.  My  apologies  for  troubling 
you !  A  poor  man  with  rich  relations  lives  surrounded 
by  sword-points,  which  sometimes  prick  and  sometimes 
proffer  cheques  and  sometimes  do  both  simultaneously! 
He  acquires  dexterity  in  removing  the  cheques  un- 
wounded,  or  arms  himself  with  pride  and  stabs  in  return. 
There's  happiness  in  neither  course;  and  yet  one  of 
the  most  difficult  things  in  the  world  is  to  stroke  those 
sword-points  in  order  to  learn  which  are  blunted  and 
have  no  intention  to  injure,  and  which  are  needle-sharp ! 
Cynthia,  one  question  only  for  you.  How  much  do  you 
think  your  people  could  allow  you,  and  never  miss  it  ? " 

Cynthia  did  not  know  and  said  so.  "I  have  not  the 
faintest  idea,  Shaun.  I  don't  know  what  their  income 
is,  even." 

' '  Couldn  't  you  ask,  my  dear  child  ? ' ' 

"No,"  she  said,  "I  couldn't,  I'm  afraid,  Shaun." 

Shaun  detected  Peter  smiling  at  her  encouragingly. 
"Young  ass!"  he  remarked,  briefly.  "She  has  a  per- 
fect right  to  know  what  expectations  she  has. ' ' 

"I  do  not  believe  I  have  any!"  exclaimed  Cynthia. 

"Your  father's  official  income  must  be  close  upon 
£1,500  a  year,  and  he  lives  at  the  rate  of  £2,500, 1  should 


216  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

say.  There's  a  margin  for  private  means.  However, 
we'll  leave  it.  You  would  be  aware  if  there  was  any 
money  already  invested  in  your  name,  because  the  inter- 
est would  be  coming  in.  What  about  reversions  ? ' ' 

"Reversions?"  asked  Cynthia,  puzzled. 

"Cynthia  and  I  have  talked  all  this  out,"  said  Peter, 
"and  we  came  to  the  conclusion  that  it  was  unlikely 
she  would  inherit  money  except  from  her  father  and 
mother.  We  do  not  think  there  is  anything  to  be  gained 
by  bothering  them." 

"  'Let  well  alone,'  as  the  dog  said  when  he  decided 
not  to  steal  a  steak  off  the  live  bullock.  I  know  you 
think  I  'm  a  hopeless  sort  of  a  person,  Peter.  I  retaliate 
by  gibes  at  your  youth.  I  would  take  the  last  copper 
from  a  blind  child,  myself,  if  I  needed  it  to  get  married. 
Don 't  interrupt !  You  may  come  to  that  yet ;  you  can 't 
tell  what  Providence  has  in  store  for  you.  'He's  a 
Character!'  as  my  mother's  old  servant  used  to  chuckle. 
I  was  once  a  beautiful  plant  covered  with  a  fresh  green 
foliage  of  illusions  and  flowering  all  the  year  round  with 
brightly-tinted  ideals,  lovely  rose-coloured  things.  I 
became  a  journalist,  and  withered.  You  are  going  to 
be  a  journalist  too,  Peter ;  and  unless  Providence  bestows 
upon  you  an  independent  income  you  may  wither  like- 
wise. I  don't  advise  you  to  meet  withering  halfway,  but 
I  do  recommend  you  to  keep  as  much  as  possible  out 
of  draughts!" 

"You  have  not  really  withered,  Shaun,"  said  Cynthia, 
quietly.  "You  have  grown  older,  and  Peter  must,  too. 
I  would  face  Father  and  Mother  if  I  were  strong  enough, 
but  I  'm  not.  I  've  tried  and  I  give  way  when  the  critical 
moment  comes.  Surely,  it  is  better  to  own  up. ' ' 

"The  girl's  growing  into  a  woman!"  cried  Shaun, 
ruffling  his  hair. 

"You  see  Lady  Bremner  is  easily  made  ill — — "  Peter 
began  to  explain. 

"  — I  saw!  Now  I'll  leave  you  to  yourselves,  while 
I  go  downstairs  and  make  tea.  A  tap  precedes  my 
entry." 

The  conversation  had  not  been  quite  fruitless.    Shaun 


THE  WINGS  OF  YOUTH  217 

dimly  foresaw  action  which  he  might  be  called  upon  to 
take  to  enable  the  boy  he  had  grown  fond  of  to  wed  this 
girl  he  could  not  altogether  cease  from  loving.  A 
train  of  thought  had  been  set  in  motion.  He  caused 
them  to  start  apart,  by  letting  slip  a  cup  in  the  kitchen 
below,  long  before  tea  was  prepared.  Which  was  odd, 
for  Shaun  was  seldom  clumsy.  And  during  the  remain- 
der of  the  evening  he  was  inclined  to  be  silent. 


XXVIII 

A  PEW  weeks  later,  on  a  warm  evening  in  early  May, 
Peter  met  Cynthia  by  appointment  at  the  bridge  over 
the  Serpentine.  He  was  the  first  arrival,  but  contrary 
to  his  wont  did  not  start  forward  to  welcome  her  when 
he  saw  her  approaching  from  Alexandra  Gate.  He  stood 
straight  and  still. 

She  had  been  light-hearted,  with  the  careless  joy  of 
youth  in  sunshine.  Now  she  turned  pale  and  seemed 
to  herself  to  falter  as  she  drew  near,  for  his  soul  was  in 
his  eyes,  and  they  were  agonised.  Her  own  were  beau- 
tiful. He  could  see  nothing  but  her  deep,  compassionate 
eyes.  ' '  Tell  me,  Peter ! ' '  cried  the  sweet  and  clear  voice 
that  he  loved.  ' '  Tell  your  friend,  Peter !  Darling,  what 
is  it  ? "  The  pain  that  had  held  him  as  in  a  vice  relaxed 
at  the  sound ;  it  lifted,  was  gone,  and  left  him  free  to 
speak. 

"Cynthia!" 

"Peter,  do  tell  me!    You  are  not  ill?" 

"No,  no.  I  am  sorry.  Oh,  I've  frightened  you,  my 
own,  my  own !  Beautiful  Girl !  That 's  the  right  name 
for  you,  sweet,  sweet  Cynthia ! ' ' 

"I'd  sooner  be  called  just  your  dear  chum.  Please, 
Peter,  let  me  try  to  help ! ' ' 

"It's  these  brutes  of  Directors  of  ours.  They  are 
going  to  bring  in  a  rule  that  none  of  us  may  marry  until 
he  has  £200  a  year.  From  the  Company,  dear!  Seven 
years  to  wait,  unless  Laurence  Man  promotes  me ! " 

"I  must  walk  on.  Come  with  me,  Peter.  Surely 
they  won 't ;  they  can 't  be  so  unreasonably  cruel.  They 
must  allow  private  means  to  count!  You'll  be  making 
£200  the  first  year  you  start  to  sell  your  drawings. ' ' 

218 


THE  WINGS  OF  YOUTH  219 

"Perhaps,  with  my  salary,  but  oh,  Cynthia,  they  are 
brutes;  even  though  they  allowed  private  incomes  to 
count — and  they  may — I  could  not  mention  that.  They 
don 't  allow  any  clerk  to  engage  in  a  trade  or  profession 
outside  the  Office.  Some  do  and  are  winked  at.  I 
couldn  't,  that 's  certain ! ' ' 

* '  Poor,  poor  Peter !  Yes,  they  are  brutes,  and  I  hate 
them  for  what  they  do  to  you.  I  would  like  to  tell  them 
so.  At  any  rate  they  ought  to  have  given  longer  no- 
tice! When  does  the  rule  come  into  force?  How  was 
it  announced?  Tell  me  everything." 

"Laurence  Man  read  it  out  to-day.  I  thought  he 
gave  a  sneering  look  at  me  as  he  finished.  I  don't  know; 
probably  I'm  wronging  him.  The  order  will  date  from 
the  end  of  next  month,  after  which  special  dispensations 
will  only  be  given  on  the  recommendation  of  the  Manag- 
ing Director,  who  '11  be  him  by  that  time,  old  girl !  Don 't 
you  see  how  hopeless  it  is  ?  His  promotion  is  before  the 
Board  now,  and  he's  already  acting  in  the  higher  capac- 
ity. He'll  never  consent  against  your  people's  wishes. 
It's  hopeless!  And  rotten  job  though  this  is,  I  daren't 
chuck  a  safe,  regular  salary  and  a  pension — and  pros- 
pects, too,  if  I  were  only  given  a  chance!  Even  Shauii 
advises  against  it. ' ' 

They  were  passing  the  lodge  in  the  centre  of  the  park. 
There  was  a  pleasant  view  of  fresh  young  grass,  tall 
English  elms;  and  from  the  distance  came  the  muffled 
noise  of  traffic.  A  robin  was  piping  his  poignant-sweet 
little  song;  it  seemed  to  shake  tears  into  Peter's  heart. 
He  felt  them  tremble  there  and  rise  to  his  throat.  Cyn- 
thia 's  elbow  was  touching  his.  He  thrilled.  They  were 
walking  very  slowly,  entering  upon  the  long  path  which 
leads  to  Cumberland  Gate.  Suddenly  she  spoke,  in  an 
odd  voice,  with  her  face  turned  away.  She  was  glancing 
down  at  the  parasol  she  held  in  her  right  hand. 

"It's  not  hopeless,  Peter!"  she  said. 

' '  What  do  you  mean  ? ' ' 

"It  isn't  hopeless,  yet."     She  did  not  look  at  him. 

"But  how,  dear?" 

Cynthia  stopped  and  faced  him,  holding  the  parasol 


220  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

in  both  hands,  slender  and  upright  and  frank.  "I'm 
not  afraid ! ' '  she  said. 

Peter  flushed  to  his  forehead.  His  plain  countenance 
became  transfigured.  He  was  the  picture  of  astonish- 
ment and  joy. 

"I'm  not!"  she  repeated,  growing  pink.  She  was  a 
lovely  lady  in  that  moment;  to  him  aureoled,  to  the 
passer-by  a  very  type  of  fair  English  girlhood, — he  was 
a  considerate  passer  and  he  hurried  on.  The  man  and 
the  girl  neither  saw  nor  heard  him.  It  was  as  though 
their  souls  hovered,  questioning,  in  the  air  between 
them.  .  .  . 

"My  dear!"  said  Peter,  coming  back  to  himself, 
"I'd  love  it.  I'd  give  the  world  if  I  possessed  it,  just 
for  that.  But  could  we  live  on  two  hundred?  And  if 
we  could,  I  have  not  got  it !  I  mustn  't  ask  you  to  marry 
me  now. ' ' 

Her  sad  eyes  darkened,  suffused  with  tears.  She  said 
firmly :  ' '  Whatever  you  decide  is  right,  my  Peter.  We 
could  live  on  two  hundred,  though.  Trust  me  not  to 
be  a  spendthrift.  I've  learnt  to  cook.  I  would  work, 
make  my  own  clothes.  I  'm  not  afraid ! ' ' 

' '  But  I  suppose  we  could  not  possibly  manage  on  £125 
a  year,  and  your  people  would  never  consent,  would  they, 
Cynthia  ?  Oh,  I  long  to,  but  I  know  we  mustn 't. ' ' 

"I  would  sooner  be  married,  and  tell  Father  and 
Mother  afterwards, ' '  said  Cynthia,  turning  and  walking 
on.  "  I  'm  not  strong  enough  to  fight  against  them. ' ' 

Peter  followed.  "We  could  be  married  and  go  on 
living  as  before,"  he  argued,  thoughtfully,  "and  an- 
nounce it  when  we  could  afford  to.  The  Great  Company 
doesn't  know  officially  anything  about  my  affairs,  and 
they  couldn't  object  when  they  saw  the  date  of  the  wed- 
ding. It  would  be  rough  on  your  people,  but  it  would 
make  them  consent  to  our  being  engaged — you  know  what 
I  mean.  It  wouldn't  matter,  then — oh,  what  is  it?  I 
mean  they  would  have  to  make  the  best  of  it." 

"That  was  what  I  thought  of  at  once,"  said  Cynthia, 
in  a  quiet  voice.  "You  don't  think  nue  very  horrid,  do 
you,  Peter  ?  I  feel  rather  ashamed,  I  don 't  know  why. ' ' 


THE  WINGS  OF  YOUTH  221 

"You  couldn't  be  horrid.  Did  you  think  of  it  seri- 
ously, then?" 

' '  I  said  I  wasn  't  afraid ! ' ' 

"By  Jove,"  said  Peter,  a  new  light  breaking  in  on 
him.  He  suddenly  felt  very  cool  and  businesslike.  "It's 
a  thing  to  consider,  anyway ! ' ' 

"And  I  must  go  in,"  said  Cynthia.  "Don't  come  any 
further,  Peter  dear.  Alan  is  dining  at  home  to-night; 
he  might  walk  up  inside  the  Park.  It  would  only  make 
trouble  if  we  met  him.  Good-bye,  darling.  Really  you 
must  go  back  now."  She  spoke  gravely. 

Peter  was  grave  as  he  replied,  "We'll  think  it  over 
and  write.  I  didn't  know  I  could  love  you  more,  but  I 
do. ' '  There  was  a  handclasp.  Cynthia  turned  with  a  lit- 
tle sobbing  cry  and  walked  quickly  away.  Dusk  seemed 
to  fall  upon  the  Park,  and  the  air  grew  cold.  When  she 
disappeared  among  the  people  passing  in  and  out  of  the 
gates,  he  felt  a  wrench  at  his  heart  like  the  grip  of  a 
savage  hand ;  and  as  he  moved  towards  the  west  a  chilly 
breeze  struck  his  face  and  the  last  sunlight  was  fading 
from  the  grass.  But  overhead  the  sky  was  clear,  flushed 
with  pink  that  deepened  to  a  rosy  splendour  as  of  dawn ; 
and  straightway  Peter  began  to  whistle. 


XXIX 

SHAUN  had  been  suffering  from  fits  of  morbidness,  dur- 
ing which  he  shut  himself  up  and  refused  to  see  Peter. 
They  were  not  new,  these  'bad  moods'  of  his.  About 
once  in  every  month  for  a  space  of  two  or  three  days  he 
became  a  prey  to  depression  and  secluded  himself.  The 
fine,  early  spring  appeared  to  have  affected  his  nerves 
unfavourably  since  frequently  of  late  his  door  had  been 
closed  to  his  friend.  The  novelist  had  warned  Peter  that 
creative  artists,  from  the  nature  of  their  endowment, 
were  peculiarly  open  to  assaults  of  the  senses  upon  the 
imagination ;  and  he  himself  was  an  object-lesson  in  the 
might  of  the  assailant  as  he  generally  emerged  from 
these  moods  looking  shrunk  and  battered.  He  rarely 
slept  until  the  attack  was  over,  instead  tramping  all 
night ;  and  he  neither  wrote  nor  read.  In  the  daytime  he 
carpentered  in  an  attic. 

When  Peter  presented  himself  he  saw  that  the  climax 
was  successfully  past — Shaun  was  pale  but  beaming. 
"Dear  old  Peter,"  he  began,  "I'm  conscious  I  look  like 
a  deboshed  fish,  out  I'm  my  own  man  again,  and  rather 
in  love  with  life  as  a  matter  of  fact!  You  may  talk 
about  Cynthia  for  a  full  half-hour." 

Peter  responded  by  eloquence  lasting  without  a  break 
for  thirty-seven  minutes  by  the  clock  on  the  mantelpiece. 

"I  was  thinking  of  suggesting  that  you  two  should 
let  me  announce  the  engagement  in  the  Press  and  take 
the  responsibility  with  Papa,"  said  Shaun.  "Secret 
marriages  are  all  very  well  in  their  way,  but  the  absence 
of  wedding  presents  is  a  fatal  objection  in  my  mercenary 
eyes. ' ' 

Peter  did  not  smile  upon  the  amendment.  "Are  the 

222 


THE  WINGS  OF  YOUTH  223 

Bremners  the  kind  of  people  to  be  rushed  ?  "  he  inquired, 
in  a  doubtful  tone. 

"I  think,  yes.  I  have  always  thought  so.  I  grant 
that  Lady  Bremner  is  obstinate,  but  I  believe  Sir 
Everard  to  be  capable  of  reason.  Of  course  Lady 
Bremner  would  take  to  her  bed  if  opposed.  To  my  mind 
that 's  your  strongest  argument  for  a  fait  accompli;  and 
it's  the  one  you  have  not  used.  But  will  the  Great 
Company  register  you  all  as  either  married  or  single  on 
the  date  of  bringing  their  rule  into  force  ?  That  would 
spike  your  guns,  my  friend." 

"No,  they  aren't  going  to  do  that,"  Peter  assured 
him.  "The  rule  is  horribly  unpopular  and  Man  will 
not  do  anything  likely  to  make  it  more  so.  It's  only 
the  marriages  after  that  date  which  have  got  to  be 
sanctioned  by  the  Directorate.  I'm  jolly  sure  they  won't 
ask  any  questions  about  what  happens  in  the  next  few 
weeks.  All  the  men  think  that,  and  several  are  going 
to  get  quietly  married." 

"Won't  your  chums  find  it  odd  that  you  never  told 
them  you  were  married?" 

"I  don't  see  why.  I  never  talk  about  my  private 
affairs,  and  I  really  haven't  any  chums,  if  it  comes  to 
that." 

"You'll  let  them  imagine  you  were  living  with  your 
wife  all  the  time.  Is  that  the  idea  ? ' ' 

"It  doesn't  matter  what  they  think,  Shaun.  They 
may  not  find  out  anything  at  all  until  quite  a  long  time 
after  the  marriage  has  become  known  to  the  Bremners' 
friends.  Laurence  Man  will  know  sooner  than  that,  of 
course,  but  he  can't  say  anything  if  Cynthia's  people 
are  friendly  to  us,  can  he?" 

"How  is  he  behaving  now?  You  haven't  mentioned 
him  lately." 

"I  haven't  seen  you  since  the  Revel,  I  believe!  Oh, 
he's  all  right." 

' '  Peter,  you  seem  to  have  thought  this  whole  thing  out 
pretty  carefully,  and  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do: — I  won't 
condemn  your  scheme  offhand !  You  and  she  had  better 
come  here  on  Thursday  and  talk  the  proposal  out.  I 


224  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

shall  have  made  up  what  I  call  my  mind  by  then. 
You've  plenty  of  time  in  between  to  fix  up  an  ap- 
pointment with  her.  Send  me  a  postcard." 

Accordingly,  soon  after  seven  o'clock  on  Thursday 
evening,  Shaun  was  lying  back  in  his  big  arm-chair; 
having  already  guessed  the  decision  at  which  his  guests 
had  arrived.  They  were  standing  together  by  the 
window  in  a  spot  where  lingered  the  last  sunshine. 
As  he  looked  on  them  he  knew  himself  jealous,  not  for 
the  first  time,  of  the  splendour  of  their  youth.  Tall, 
strong  Peter  was  bending  forward  above  the  girl,  who 
stood  with  her  rounded  chin  uptilted  ever  so  little  and 
her  hands  clasped  lightly  in  front  of  her.  He  was  dis- 
figured by  his  office  coat,  which  in  his  haste  he  had 
forgotten  to  change;  it  was  tight  across  the  shoulders, 
concealing  in  place  of  suggesting  his  really  fine  muscular 
development.  But  the  enchanting  girl  was  dressed  so 
as  to  display  her  beauty  to  the  uttermost  advantage. 

Cynthia  had  attired  herself  for  the  evening,  in  order 
to  be  able  to  stay  till  the  last  possible  moment,  and  on 
entering  she  had  flung  off  her  cloak.  She  wore  a  cling- 
ing gown  of  delicate  blue,  embroidered  with  silvery 
flowers,  sleeveless,  with  straps  of  pearls;  in  accordance 
with  the  fashion  it  outlined  her  slender,  young  body 
and  limbs.  Its  colour  set  off  her  dazzling  white  skin, 
the  frail  rose  of  her  cheeks,  the  carmine  of  her  lips, 
and  the  rich,  brown  masses  of  her  hair,  bound  low  above 
wide,  grey  eyes.  Out  of  a  pardonable  vanity  she  had 
drawn  off  her  gloves  in  the  cab  and  her  lovely  arms  and 
graceful  ivory  shoulders  were  wholly  bare  save  for  the 
two  pearly  bands;  she  wore  no  other  jewels.  Cynthia's 
eyes  were  dancing,  they  were  radiant  and  excited,  but 
when  she  glanced  at  Peter  there  was  a  steadfastness 
in  her  look  which  told  Shaun  everything. 

"Why  isn't  she  for  me?"  Shaun  asked  himself,  and 
thought  well-nigh  grudgingly  of  fascinating,  elf-like 
Doris,  his  wife,  who  would  have  appeared  plain  by  the 
side  of  this  brilliant  girl.  But  her  image  grew  in  his 
heart ;  and,  in  place  of  disparagement,  he  felt  a  flood  of 
tears  rise  suddenly  and  the  old,  helpless  pain  return. 


THE  WINGS  OF  YOUTH  225 

"I  love  her,"  he  knew.  "When  I  imagined  I  cared  for 
Cynthia  I  was  only  searching,  searching  for  lost  Doris, 
like  a  child  groping  in  the  dark  for  his  mother  who  is 
gone  away.  I  was  pathetic,  because  I  would  not  face 
my  tragedy."  The  last  trace  of  his  romantic  passion 
for  Cynthia  vanished  in  that  instant  of  self-knowledge. 
He  never  forgot  again  that  he  was  lonely.  Memories 
haunted  him  until  the  end. 

Aloud  he  said,  "Those  who  have  once  loved  cannot 
cease  to  love,  you  happy  children!  Remember  before 
it  is  too  late." 

"It  is  too  late,"  said  Cynthia. 

"If  one  of  you  be  taken,  there  is  Life  for  the  dead 
lover,  we  believe ;  but  for  the  living  only  work  with- 
out comfort,  and  empty  days  of  waiting  and  bitter  nights 
of  despair." 

"It  is  worth  while,  Shaun,"  answered  Peter,  taking 
her  hands. 

"Yes,  it  is  worth  it  a  thousand  times,  a  myriad  mil- 
lion times,  as  much  as  God  Himself  is  worthy!  All 
who've  ever  cared  for  a  woman  know  that  He  gives 
Love.  Swear  that  you'll  so  love  each  other,  Peter  and 
Cynthia!" 

"I  do ! "  they  cried,  with  one  voice,  ringingly. 

"Then  your  spirits  are  wedded,  for  I  am  an  artist 
speaking  truth  in  the  presence  of  God.  Get  on  with 
your  Church  ceremony  when  you  please.  Leave  me 
to  settle  up  with  your  parents,  or  keep  it  dark — that's 
for  yourselves  to  decide.  I  've  thought  things  over.  I  'm 
not  speaking  hastily.  I'm  responsible  for  the  advice  I 
give.  Don't  make  up  your  minds  here.  Think  things 
over  separately  and  remember  my  cynicism  as  well  as 
my  emotion!  You  can't  afford  to  live  together  yet,  in 
my  opinion.  In  your  place  I'd  be  patient  as  to  that. 
But  the  Great  Company  is  forcing  your  hands  and  per- 
haps it  would  be  well  to  be  married."  He  was  silent, 
sitting  crumpled  in  his  chair,  with  burning  eyes.  They 
waited,  now  side  by  side  in  front  of  him,  glancing  at 
each  other  awestruck.  After  a  little  he  said,  ' '  The  joy- 
ful years  are  those  in  which  you  are  finding  yourself, 


226  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

children;  the  years  when  love  is  teaching  your  soul  to 
fly ;  when  you  are  striving  and  struggling  and  making  a 
fool  of  yourself  and  learning;  the  time  of  development 
that  comes  after  physical  growth,  that  leads  from  man- 
hood and  womanhood  to  maturity.  Those  are  the  joyful 
years." 

"And  aren't  the  years  after?"  asked  Cynthia,  wist- 
fully. 

"Then  you  are  free  to  do  your  work  in  the  world 
and  to  help  others.  No,  joy  goes,  but  happiness  comes 
instead."  He  stood  up,  and  said  with  abruptness,  "Let 
yourselves  out  when  you  go.  Do  not  disturb  me!"  and 
passed  into  the  inner  room;  from  which,  through  the 
closed  and  locked  door,  came  after  a  little  time  the  sound 
of  stifled  sobbing. 


XXX 

FOUR  weeks,  during  which  Peter  did  not  once  meet 
Cynthia,  had  dragged  slowly  away,  and  they  were  to  be 
married  before  the  Registrar  in  the  morning.  Peter  had 
overcome  his  agonies  of  shyness  and  faced  that  official ; 
he  had  made  the  very  simple  arrangements  necessary 
and  been  surprised  at  their  simplicity;  he  had  plunged 
boldly  into  a  jeweller's  on  Netting  Hill  and  bought  the 
ring;  he  had  lived  in  a  trance  at  the  office,  walked  the 
streets  without  being  aware  of  the  pavement  under  his 
feet,  suffered  Shaun's  almost  womanly  tenderness 
towards  him  with  a  certain  amount  of  embarrassment, 
and  blushed  hotly  at  every  mention  of  Cynthia's  name. 
Now  he  was  upon  the  back  of  a  roaring  monster,  speed- 
ing, dragon-borne,  through  dark  London  streets.  The 
motor- 'bus  was  as  unreal  as  the  phenomena  of  his  own 
existence,  or  the  picture  of  Cynthia  in  his  memory.  He 
could  not  believe  it  existed  in  the  same  dimension  as 
himself.  Nothing  did  except  the  knowledge  of  his  love, 
and  that  came  seldom  close.  It  concealed  itself  per- 
petually round  the  corner  and  peeped ;  a  solitary  fact  in 
a  world  of  shadows,  more  actual,  however,  than  the  Be- 
loved herself,  who  in  his  thoughts  often  appeared  a 
stranger.  It  seemed  extraordinary  that  he  was  going 
to  link  his  life  to  that  of  a  beautiful  girl  stepping  out 
of  a  dream.  The  name  'Cynthia'  might  have  been  that 
of  a  romantic  Princess  whom  he  was  wedding  from  lofty 
reasons  of  state,  so  secluded  was  she  from  his  con- 
sciousness, so  intrusive  seemed  this  bursting  in  upon 
her  and  claiming  her  as  his  own.  He  could  have  found  it 
in  his  heart  to  pity  her  had  it  not  been  that  in  his  waking 
life  he  knew  they  loved.  Sometimes,  ah,  sometimes, 
she  came  close  and  looked  at  him  with  the  eyes  of  the 

227 


228  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

soul,  deep  and  starry  and  grey,  and  then  he  knew 
rapture.  But  it  was  not  the  rapture  of  earth.  A  lyric 
of  Shaun  James,  written  many  years  ago  during  the 
novelist's  boyhood,  expressed  this  aloofness  to  Peter's 
mind. 

"I  have  a  dream,  so  piercing  sweet, 
Of  One  that  lieth  at  my  feet: 
Her  face,  her  form  I  cannot  tell, 
And  yet  I  know  I  love  her  well. 

Her  voice  is  distant  like  the  sea; 
It  draws  the  soul  away  from  me, 
And  when  I  wake  and  am  alone 
I  know  to  whom  my  soul  is  gone. ' ' 

That  he  was  not  disturbed  by  the  sense  of  distance 
between  them,  was  a  convincing  proof  of  his  love.  Yes, 
it  certainly  was.  He  recognised  this.  But  what  might 
she  not  be  suffering  now  from  a  similar  feeling?  She 
might  not  have  discovered  the  same  consolation. 

The  'bus  was  clearing  a  way  for  itself  through  a 
crowded  East-end  thoroughfare,  along  a  line  of  barrows 
lit  by  flares.  "What  do  I  know  about  girls,  or  how 
to  take  care  of  them?"  Peter  asked  himself.  "I'm 
such  an  ignorant  sort  of  chap."  The  thought  shaped 
itself  into  a  prayer.  "Please  God,  help  me  to  help 
Cynthia.  Help  me  to  find  out  how  to  do  it."  Im- 
mediately he  was  thrilled  with  so  strong  a  sense  of  her 
nearness  that  she  might  have  been  seated  at  his  side. 
His  heart  went  up  in  a  flame  of  thanks  to  Almighty 
God. 

Cynthia  sat  in  a  little  rose-and-white  boudoir  that 
Lady  Bremner  had  furnished  for  her  next  to  her  bed- 
room. She  often  spent  an  hour  or  so  there  before 
going  to  bed.  From  where  she  was  lying  in  an  easy- 
chair,  her  head  against  a  cushion,  thick  hair  loose,  hands 
clasped  behind  her  neck,  she  could  see  a  reflection  of 
her  bare-armed,  bare-throated  beauty  in  a  mirror  which 
hung  upon  the  wall.  Idly  she  admired  her  rest-gown 
of  shell-pink  silk  through  which  her  shoulders  gleamed 


THE  WINGS  OF  YOUTH  229 

white  and  satiny,  and  "I  know  he  likes  my  hair,"  she 
thought.  "I  wish  there  were  something  to  like  about 
me  besides  my  looks.  I'm  dreadfully  unworthy  of 
Peter."  She  rose  with  a  motion  full  of  the  grace 
which  comes  from  supple  strength,  and  went  and  stood 
in  front  of  the  glass,  stretching  out  her  arms.  "It's 
nice  to  be  beautiful,  when  one's  loved,"  she  thought. 
"One  has  more  to  give.  I  won't  be  a  drag  on  him  for 
clothes.  I've  got  more  things  than  I  can  wear  out  in 
twenty  years.  I  wish  we  could  have  a  home  and  be 
married  properly;  Peter  frets  so  at  the  waiting.  He 
isn't  like  me,  just  happy  with  being  loved.  Poor  Peter 
of  mine!  He  has  all  the  worst  part,  all  the  anxiety 
and  the  hardships.  I  should  like  to  be  married  properly 
if  it  were  only  to  be  able  to  share  them.  Somehow 
it  isn't  possible  to  think  of  what's  going  to  happen  to- 
morrow as  marriage!  Shaun  would  laugh,  and  say  I 
wanted  a  trousseau  and  bridesmaids,  but  it  isn't  that, 
it's  Daddy  and  Mummy  there  and  being  kind  that  I 
want!  I  should  have  thought  I  would  be  the  last  girl 
in  the  world  to  marry  secretly  at  a  registrar's,  it  seems 
much  more  characteristic  of  Phyllis, — and  yet  here  it  is, 
going  to  happen!  This  is  a  queer  world,  and  you  are 
not  very  clever,  silly  Cynthia,  or  you  would  have  found 
it  out  before.  I'm  sure  the  books  all  say  so." 

She  glided  to  the  door  and  opened  it,  passed  into  the 
bedroom.  "I  shall  brush  my  hair  myself,"  she  decided. 
' '  It  would  be  a  shame  to  fetch  back  Marie  now.  Eleven 
o'clock!  Your  last  night  as  Miss  Bremner,  Cynthia. 
To-morrow  I  shall  be  Mrs.  Middleton!  Oh,  my  dear 
girl,  I  can  hardly  believe  it.  I  wish  I  had  a  sister; 
it's  dull  talking  to  oneself  on  such  an  occasion!  I  feel 
horribly  queer  and  excited." 

She  had  slipped  off  the  rest-gown.  Her  pretty  white 
feet  shone  on  the  soft  black  rug  by  the  side  of  the  bed. 
She  was  slender  and  fair  as  she  stood  upright  for  a 
moment  before  stooping  to  the  night-dress  laid  out  upon 
the  coverlet.  She  put  it  on,  and  whilst  its  folds  were 
still  in  the  act  of  falling  dropped  suddenly  on  her  knees 
and  buried  her  head  in  her  hands,  shaking  her  hair  over 


230  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

them  and  over  her  face;  and  her  body  quivered.  "If 
it  were  that,  to-morrow,"  she  was  thinking,  "should  I 
be  afraid?  Oh,  Peter,  Peter,  bear  with  the  stupid 
girl  who  loves  you,  and  when  the  time  comes,  let  her  be 
a  little  afraid!  Peter,  I  do  love  you!"  Her  agitation 
subsided ;  and  now,  like  Peter,  she  was  praying. 


PART  TWO 
TRANSFORMATION 


PART  TWO 
TRANSFORMATION 

".  .  .  //  the  love  be  false  and  the  wings  waxen,  great 
is  the  fall  and  youth  lies  shattered.  But  if  the  love  be 
of  the  spirit,  then  under  the  hot  sun  youth  undergoes  a 
wondrous  change,  passing  into  maturity  without  descend- 
ing to  the  gross  earth;  and  its  flight  becomes  ever  more 
strong,  for  such  winged  youth  is  deathless. ' ' — SH.  JAMES. 


THE  marriage  was  to  take  place  at  half  past  eight. 
Peter  woke  at  five,  and  by  eight  o'clock  he  was  pacing 
up  and  down  in  front  of  the  district  register  office. 
He  gazed  at  the  uninspiring  building  with  wonder  at 
its  power.  Here  was  to  be  brought  to  pass  quite  simply 
and  easily  what  had  seemed  impossible  during  a  year 
and  a  half.  Here  he  was  to  be  married  to  Cynthia! 
Little  mattered  the  exterior  of  the  place  in  the  circum- 
stances. He  wished  himself  it  had  been  a  church,  though 
Cynthia  had  not  minded.  The  religion  of  all  the 
Bremners  save  Alan,  who  was  keen  on  forms  and  cere- 
monies, was  eminently  tolerant:  it  was  another  proof 
of  her  wonderfulness  that  she  had  not  been  shocked  at 
the  idea  of  marriage  before  a  registrar.  Peter  halted 
in  his  promenade  in  order  to  admire.  She  had  con- 
fessed honestly  that  she  would  miss  the  bridesmaids  and 
music  and  crowds  and  excitement.  And  though  she 
had  not  said  it,  how  lonely  she  would  feel  this  morning, 
leaving  her  home  secretly,  all  by  herself!  Without 
even  a  girl  chum  to  go  with  her.  She  was  brave !  How 
plucky  she  was!  He  had  not  realised  the  magnitude 
of  what  she  was  doing  for  him.  No  girl  was  fonder  of 

232 


234  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

her  people.  It  must  be  agony  for  her  to  leave  them. 
His  darling!  His  poor  darling!  .  .  . 

"Steady  there!"  said  a  voice  behind,  and  Shaun 
slipped  an  arm  into  his  and  gently  drew  him  away. 
"I  did  not  expect  to  find  the  bridegroom  performing 
balancing  feats  on  the  outer  edge  of  the  kerb  and 
grimacing  like  a  sick  monkey!  If  you  are  worrying 
about  Cynthia,  stop  it  at  once.  "Women  are  much 
more  sensible  than  men  except  when  they  're  mad.  Most 
are  mad,  but  Cynthia  is  an  exception.  She  '11  arrive  sane 
and  cheerful,  all  her  little  weeps  and  grimaces  over  at 
home  in  order  not  to  distress  Peter.  Bless  her !  She  knows 
what  she's  doing,  old  ass.  Come  and  be  ginned  up!" 

"No,  really!  I  won't  have  a  drink,  thanks.  I  only 
remembered  what  a  tremendous  thing  she  was  doing 
in  consenting  to  this." 

"My  remarks  still  stand,  Peter.  Here's  my  wedding 
present  to  you  both.  Shove  it  in  your  pocket,  don't 
look  at  it  now;  it's  only  a  letter!  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Trerice 
have  a  small,  farm  between  Roughtor  and  Brown  Willy 
on  the  Cornish  moorland.  They  are  the  best  people 
in  the  world,  and  can  make  you  uncommonly  comfort- 
able at  a  few  hours'  notice.  No  one  goes  there  but  me, 
so  you  only  need  to  wire,  and  stay  as  long  as  you  care 
to!  I  pay  the  bill,  see?  No  thanks,  if  you  please; 
not  a  thank !  I  'm  honestly  relieved  that  I  'm  not  going 
there  with  Cynthia  myself — liar!  We  should  never 
have  suited.  Now  don't  you  feel  bound  to  go  to  Corn- 
wall if  you  don't  want  to  when  the  time  comes.  May 
that  be  soon,  by  the  way!  Here  she  is!  ...  No,  it's 
the  registrar !  Shall  we  keep  his  taxi  ?  Is  it  quicker  to 
drive  to  the  City  than  to  go  by  tube?  I'll  pay.  This 
is  my  funeral." 

"Tube  is  quicker,"  decided  Peter. 

"All  right.  No,  we  don't  want  you,  driver!  I've 
sold  a  drawing,  Peter — just  to  encourage  you  and  to 
make  the  sun  shine.  Pity  it's  such  a  dull  morning! 
Here  she  is !  Early,  too.  Cream  coat  and  skirt,  my  boy. 
Come  on,  don't  be  shy;  you  must  go  to  meet  her.  I 
walk  in  the  wrong  direction — bye-bye!" 


TRANSFORMATION  235 

Peter  found  himself  alone,  heard  through  the  throb- 
bing in  his  ears  the  sound  of  Shaun's  retreating  foot- 
steps— they  were  irregular  and  excited,  a  kind  of  hop, 
skip  and  jump — and  hurried  toward  her.  The  stars  in 
her  lovely  eyes  were  sparkling,  her  dimples  played  bo- 
peep.  He  caught  a  glimpse  of  pretty  white  teeth  between 
the  smiling  lips.  Who  was  this  beauty  stepping  so 
lightly  and  freely,  who  was  this  fair  young  English  girl 
approaching  him?  She  was  wearing  a  small  blue  hat, 
and  on  her  breast  where  the  coat  was  open  below  her 
white  exposed  throat  was  a  bunch  of  nodding  sweet 
peas,  blue  and  pink,  fresh  as  a  dewy  morning.  Her 
hair  shone  coppery  against  the  dark  lining  of  her  hat. 
He  knew  the  rounded  chin,  those  adorably  curving  lips, 
the  childishness  of  the  smooth  oval  of  the  cheeks  and 
their  frail  glow  that  came  and  went;  her  eyes,  wide 
apart,  full  of  a  dancing  comprehension  under  long 
lashes ;  the  rich  hair  waved  above ;  her  indescribable  look 
of  fragrance,  all  her  dainty  girlhood  and  compelling 
womanhood ;  but  not  till  she  had  spoken,  saying  quietly 
his  name,  did  he  feel  that  she  was  Cynthia,  his  darling ! 
Then  when  he  held  out  both  hands,  dazed  no  longer, 
she  laughed  and  shook  her  head. 

"I'm  not  yours  till  afterwards!"  she  cried,  taking 
from  the  pocket  of  her  coat  a  veil.  "I  must  put  this 
on.  I  ran  so  quickly  that  there  was  not  time!" 

"I  love  you,"  he  said. 

' '  I  gathered  so ! "  she  smiled,  and  melted  to  a  madonna 
look.  She  had  unfolded  the  veil;  and  now,  lifting  her 
elbows,  with  busy  fingers  behind  her  head  she  grace- 
fully tied  it,  and  arranged  the  front  with  quick  deft 
pats  of  the  hand.  ' '  Is  that  right  ? ' '  she  asked.  ' '  It  must 
do." 

"I  like  you  in  a  white  veil!"  Peter  worshipped.  Her 
colour  deepened  to  scarlet. 

Shaun's  voice  came,  over  the  bridegroom's  shoulder. 
"Good  morning,  dear  chum!  In  a  boys'  magazine  long 
since  defunct  but  of  the  highest  value  during  its  brief 
existence,  edited  by  the  late  G.  A.  Henty  and  entitled 
The  Union  Jack,  there  was  a  short  story  containing  a 


236  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

detective  who  made  use  of  an  admirable  catch-phrase, 
'Why  waste  time?  That's  the  p'int!' : 

"We're  early,  Shaun,"  said  Cynthia,  hesitatingly. 
"Ought  we  to  go  in?" 

' '  The  doors  stand  open.    The  enchanter  waits  within. ' ' 

She  did  not  move.  The  two  men  stared  in  astonish- 
ment. ' '  Peter,  I  'm  rather  frightened ! ' ' suddenly  she  cried. 

White-faced,  he  stammered,  "Go  back,  go  back,  dear, 
if  you  wish ! ' ' 

"No,  no,  no,  I  don't  wish!  I'm  only  nervous.  Peter! 
My  poor  Peter!"  She  clung  to  his  arm,  in  despair. 
Shaun  glanced  about  him.  Luckily  the  street  was 
empty.  "Children,  don't  be  foolish!  Give  her  your 
arm,  Peter,  and  follow  me."  He  led  the  way  into  the 
building,  without  looking  round. 

In  an  inner  office  he  found  the  bearded  Superintendent 
Registrar — the  man  who  had  arrived  in  the  taxi — at- 
tended by  a  deferential  Registrar  of  Marriages.  The 
one  was  seated  at  a  desk  with  a  long  narrow  volume 
open  in  front  of  him,  the  other  was  hovering  with 
documents.  "Miss  Bremner  and  Mr.  Middleton!"  an- 
nounced Shaun,  trusting  to  goodness  that  his  charges 
were  really  there.  He  wheeled,  and  with  a  sigh  of  re- 
lief saw  them  in  the  doorway.  Cynthia  regained  her 
self-possession  in  the  presence  of  the  strangers  and  man- 
aged to  return  their  greetings  with  her  pretty  air  of 
dignity,  but  Peter's  voice  trembled  still.  A  second  wit- 
ness was  summoned  by  the  Superintendent  through  a 
speaking-tube;  none  of  the  three  could  afterwards  re- 
call his  entrance  into  the  room. 

Then  the  Registrar  of  Marriages  administered  the 
declaration  to  Peter.  "I  do  solemnly  declare  .  .  .  that 
I  know  not  ...  of  any  lawful  impediment  .  .  .  why  I, 
Peter  Middleton  .  .  .  may  not  be  joined  in  matri- 
mony ...  to  Cynthia  Rosemary  Bremner."  Cynthia's 
turn  came.  Her  speaking  voice  was  exquisite  as  her- 
self, lovelier  far  than  her  singing  voice;  very  clear  and 
young  and  ringing  it  sounded  in  the  dark  office.  The 
Registrar  looked  at  Peter  again,  "I  call  upon  these 
persons  here  present,"  he  said  with  less  haste  and  more 


TRANSFORMATION  237 

careful  articulation;  "I  call  upon  these  persons  here 
present,"  Peter  earnestly  repeated  after  him  ...  "to 
witness  that  I,  Peter  Middleton," — "to  witness  that  I, 
Peter  Middleton,"  .  .  .  "do  take  thee,  Cynthia  Rose- 
mary Bremner" — "do  take  thee,  Cynthia  Rosemary 
Bremner,"  .  .  .  "to  be  my  lawful  wedded  wife," — "to 
be  my  lawful  wedded  wife."  And  Shaun  forgot  the 
ring,  which  was  in  his  pocket.  He  passed  it  hurriedly 
to  Peter  as  the  Registrar  turned  to  Cynthia.  "I  call 
upon  these  persons  here  present  ..."  Peter  caught  her 
hand  and  pressed  the  ring  on  to  the  wrong  finger. 
Cynthia  murmured,  "I  call  upon  these  persons  here 
present,"  gently  drawing  off  the  ring,  detaining  his 
hand,  and  making  him  understand  by  offering  ring  and 
ring-finger.  "There's  presence  of  mind  for  you!" 
thought  Shaun,  admiringly,  for  the  Registrar  went  on 
unconscious  of  what  was  passing  below  his  line  of  vision ; 
he  was  standing  facing  them  behind  the  desk,  reading 
the  oath  from  a  printed  card. 

"Well  done!"  said  Shaun,  when  it  was  over. 

"Will  you  kindly  sign  the  Registrar,  Mrs.  Middle- 
ton?"  said  the  old  Superintendent  with  the  tone  of 
an  actor  who  had  never  failed  to  get  his  effect  from  that 
particular  line.  Cynthia  started;  Shaun  saw  that  he 
had  let  slip  an  opportunity;  Peter  grew  redder,  if  that 
were  possible.  "We  wish  you  both  every  happiness." 
There  were  murmurs  of  thanks  and  the  scratching  of 
pens.  Shaun  took  charge  of  the  certificate.  "I  suppose 
with  you  gentlemen  reticence  is  a  professional  habit," 
he  said,  addressing  himself  to  the  older  man,  whose  beard 
he  now  perceived  to  be  almost  white.  He  had  been 
under  the  impression  before  that  it  was  dark. 

"Certainly,"  was  the  answer.    "I  never  gossip." 

"We  were  sure  of  that,"  said  Cynthia,  as  a  princess 
might  have  spoken. 

Shaun  shook  hands  with  the  two  Registrars  warmly. 
"I  knew  it!"  he  said.  "I  meant  no  offence.  Write 
me  down  an  ass!" 

"I  can  more  easily  consider  you  a  great  author,  sir!" 
said  the  old  gentleman  politely. 


238  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

"A  reader!"  cried  Shaun.  "Come  to  my  arms! 
But  forget  me  as  soon  as  I  get  out  of  the  door." 

"I  will  try  to  do  so.  Mrs.  Middleton,  our  duty 
this  morning  has  been  a  pleasure." 

"Thank  you!"  said  Cynthia,  charmingly.  There  was 
quite  a  chorus  of  farewells.  Peter  came  to  himself  and 
joined  in  them.  Outside,  he  glanced  at  the  girl  in 
wonderment.  It  seemed  almost  a  desecration  that  he 
should  be  the  husband  of  this  slender  piece  of  loveliness, 
this  delicately  civilised  young  person.  He  was  conscious 
of  looking  clumsy  and  savage  beside  her.  Again  his 
emotional  excitement  made  him  feel  aloof — the  word 
defines  his  condition  of  mind,  which  was  distinct  from 
shyness  or  any  sense  of  separation.  He  enjoyed  her  as 
a  picture,  aided  by  this  curious  mental  detachment. 
Never  before  had  he  so  vividly  realised  her  decorative 
quality,  how  ornamental  she  was;  his  recent  artistic 
study  helped  him  to  imagine  for  the  first  time  the 
pleasure  which  such  a  girl  must  find  in  clothes.  He 
approved  the  resentment  which  society  must  feel 
towards  the  poverty-stricken  husband  of  a  beauty.  He 
did  more  than  understand,  he  shared  it;  and  the  artist 
in  him  blamed  the  man. 

As  they  marched  rapidly  to  the  tube  station  Shaun 
talked  with  apparent  inconsequentiality  and  actual  con- 
centration of  purpose.  He  wanted  to  make  Cynthia 
laugh  and  to  restore  Peter  his  naturalness  before  the 
imminent  public  parting.  He  was  pitying  the  youngsters 
from  the  bottom  of  his  heart.  The  situation  was 
humiliating  for  the  boy  and  painfully  unpleasant  for 
the  girl.  Moreover  he  had  partially  read  Peter's  glances 
and  imagined  him  overcome  with  self-reproach,  which 
was  far  from  being  the  case.  The  painter  in  the  bride- 
groom had  registered  a  protest,  whose  justice  the  rest 
of  his  nature  admitted;  but  the  man  was  loving  and 
claiming  his  wife  all  the  time  he  walked  silent  by  her 
side.  Excitement  had  developed  Peter  to  the  extent  of 
rendering  him  capable  of  duality.  For  the  moment  he 
had  ceased  to  be  simple,  without  losing  his  strength. 

When  they  reached  the  buff-coloured  entrance  with 


TRANSFORMATION  239 

the  narrow  sign,  UNDERGROUND,  projecting  above  it, 
Shaun  said:  "Good-bye,  children,  that  'bus  will  do  for 
me."  But  he  stayed  conversing  and  the  'bus  went  by. 

' '  I  shall  be  late, ' '  said  Peter,  presently.  He  had  begun 
to  fidget. 

"Only  tell  me  this,"  said  Shaun.  "Could  either  of 
you  describe  the  officials  or  the  room?  Did  you  notice 
wall-paper  or  complexions  or  furniture  or  clothes?  I 
want  to  know  for  my  work's  sake." 

"There  was  a  tray  on  the  desk  with  a  whole  lot  of  pens 
on  it,"  said  Peter,  vaguely.  "That's  all  I  remember! 
Didn't  we  go  up  a  lot  of  steps  to  enter  the  building?" 

"Two,"  said  Shaun.    "Now,  Cynthia!" 

"I  remember  a  dear  old  gentleman  in  dark  grey  with 
a  white  beard.  Oh,  and  he  had  a  collar  turned  down 
square  at  the  points — you  know  what  I  mean — and  a 
navy  blue  tie.  Hadn  't  the  other  man  a  black  moustache 
and  a  big-jawed  kind  of  look,  like  Rudyard  Kipling?  I 
was  much  too  alarmed  to  look  at  the  furniture,  but  there 
was  a  calendar  on  the  wall  behind  the  older  man 's  head. 
He  wasn't  bald  and  his  hair  stood  up  against  it!" 

"Go  up  top,"  said  Shaun,  running  round  her  to  pur- 
sue another  'bus.  "Bless  you  both,"  was  borne  on  the 
winds  towards  them  as  they  wheeled  to  look  after  him. 
He  leapt,  caught  at  the  rail,  waved  his  arm  in  a  gesture 
conveying  exultation  and  farewell,  and  darted  inside. 
The  1)us  receded,  disappeared. 

Suddenly  they  felt  an  intolerable  loneliness.  They 
belonged  to  each  other  and  to  no  one  else.  They  were 
two  waifs,  alone  in  the  world,  homeless.  Cynthia  sig- 
nalled to  another  'bus.  Separation  was  an  agony,  but 
she  feared  that  rising  in  her  throat.  .  .  .  "For  Peter's 
sake.  Oh,  God,  help  me  to  be  brave!"  .  .  .  She  smiled 
faintly.  Peter  muttered  something,  hurried  away.  The 
'bus  was  slowing,  the  conductor  held  out  his  arm,  mean- 
ing to  make  the  pretty  girl  mount  running.  She  ran, 
and  baffled  him  by  the  agility  of  the  leap  which  carried 
her  past  his  outstretched  arm.  She  flew  up  the  steps 
without  giving  him  opportunity  to  touch  her.  When  she 
looked  round  at  the  top  Peter  was  gone.  Seating  her- 


240  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

self,  she  caught  sight  of  her  ring  with  a  shock  of  terror 
and  hastily  dragged  it  off.  If  she  had  forgotten 
that!  .  .  .  "Peter,  Peter,  Peter,  I  want  you  so!  It  is 
sweet  to  be  yours  at  last.  Oh,  my  own  Peter,  if  you 
knew  how  I  love  to  belong  to  you ! "  .  .  . 

Home  was  strange;  but  her  absence  had  gone  un- 
noticed. Her  parents  had  chosen  to  breakfast  in  their 
room.  She  thanked  Providence  for  saving  her  from 
the  lie  that  she  had  ready,  and  discovered  that  she  was 
hungry.  So  she  sent  her  things  upstairs  and  sat  down 
behind  the  tea  and  coffee  urns,  trying  to  imagine  Peter 
at  the  opposite  end  of  the  table.  When  she  was  left 
alone  she  slid  her  hand  into  the  opening  of  her  blouse 
and  drew  out  cautiously,  with  timid  glances  behind  at 
every  sound,  the  thin  gold  chain  she  wore,  and  added  to 
it  the  circlet  from  her  pocket,  and  slipped  it  in  again. 
Then  as  she  felt  the  unwonted  chill  and  lumpiness  of  two 
rings  nestling  together  between  her  breasts  against  the 
soft  bare  skin  under  shelter  of  lace  camisole  and  ninon 
and  scented  sweet  peas,  she  laughed  out  loud  a  peal  of 
childish  laughter,  and  laughed  again  and  again.  "It 
isn't  every  girl  who  wears  both  engagement  and  wedding 
rings  round  her  neck,"  she  thought,  overcome  by  the 
ludicrousness  of  the  idea.  And  then  all  at  once  she  be- 
came grave  and  sat  meditative;  no  longer  a  girl,  but 
a  very  beautiful  woman. 

Peter  arrived  at  the  office  three  minutes  late.  "Missed 
your  train,  Middleton?"  blandly  inquired  the  High 
Official  who  guarded  the  attendance-book.  He  knew 
perfectly  well  that  Peter  made  the  journey  by  tube,  so 
that  this  was  the  one  excuse  which  was  not  available. 

"I'm  very  sorry  to  be  late,  sir,"  answered  Peter,  who 
would  have  been  wiser  had  he  satisfied  Mr.  Martin's 
curiosity  by  inventing  a  chapter  of  accidents.  Resent- 
ment of  the  trap  apparently  laid  for  his  unwariness 
caused  him  to  be  gruff,  which  was  another  mistake.  His 
cue  was  to  be  alarmed  and  apologetic  and  voluble. 

"Try  not  to  be  late,  Middleton ! "  said  Mr.  Martin  with 
elaborate  gentleness.  He  meant:  "Do  not  add  the 


TRANSFORMATION  241 

insult  of  a  sullen  demeanour  towards  your  superior  to 
the  offence  of  defrauding  the  Great  Company  of  three 
minutes  of  time  which  they  have  paid  for!  Cultivate 
tact,  as  I  do.  Love,  honour,  and  obey  all  High 
Officials.  Fear  the  Managing  Director.  Always  answer 
as  you  are  expected  to  answer.  Beware  of  independence 
of  mind.  Young  man,  I  begin  to  suspect  you !  My  feel- 
ings are  hurt  because  you  did  not  understand  the  subtle 
rebuke  contained  in  my  question  about  your  train.  I 
am  aggrieved,  and  I  will  pay  you  out  for  it."  Accord- 
ingly when  Peter  returned  to  ask  where  he  was  to  work, 
as  his  name  did  not  appear  in  the  usual  place,  Mr. 
Martin,  parting  his  thin  lips,  breathed  in  a  benignant 
manner  the  name  of  Mr.  Lemon,  "who  commenced  the 
morning  with  a  heavy  day's  work  to  dispose  of,  so  you 
had  better  hasten  to  Department  B,  Middleton ! ' ' 

Cynthia  was  forgotten.  Peter  had  been  upon  the 
mountain  tops,  and  the  atmosphere  of  the  Great  Com- 
pany enveloped  him  like  a  thick  mist.  He  concentrated 
his  faculties  on  making  a  safe  descent.  "All  the  same 
Brown  has  a  great  deal  more  to  do  than  Lemon,"  he 
thought.  "Oh,  lor,  this  place!  I  set  my  large  flat  foot 
in  it  when  I  offended  Martin !  Going  to  that  old  fiend 
with  a  black  mark  against  me  means  a  jolly  unpleasant 
day.  I  won't  think  of  anything  but  the  work  until  I 
get  away."  An  excellent  resolution,  but  not  so  easy 
to  keep  when  one  has  been  married  only  one  hour. 
However,  Peter's  motto  was,  "Dogged  does  it." 

"Come  to  join  you,  sir,"  he  said  as  he  entered  a  small 
room — the  Great  Company's  offices  consisting  of  a  very 
large  number  of  intercommunicating  small  rooms,  each 
containing  a  separate  department,  amongst  which  the 
staff  was  distributed  as  necessity  arose — and  found  him- 
self in  the  presence  of  a  large,  clean-shaven  man,  with  a 
handsome,  beaked,  dead-white  face,  who  was  seated  at  a 
roll-top  desk  by  the  window.  This  was' '  The  Infamous  John 
Lemon,"  as  Semple  had  christened  him  after  the  name 
of  a  novel  he  had  read ;  a  sneak,  a  liar,  and  a  hypocrite ; 
a  drug-taker ;  who  was  supporting  a  woman  to  whom  he 
was  not  married  and  for  whom  he  was  making  provision 


242  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

by  a  determined  series  of  self-sacrifices  which  came  to 
light  three  months  later  when  he  shot  himself  in  the 
lavatory  of  Department  B.  It  was  known  to  the  staff 
that  "Infamous  John"  had  a  mistress.  The  existence  of 
a  virtue  in  him  remained  unsuspected  until  he  was  dead. 

"Come  to  join  the  busy  B's?"  rumbled  Mr.  Lemon, 
opening  a  mouth  like  a  fish's,  and  beaming  with  false 
jocularity  upon  Peter.  "Now  we  can  look  the  whole 
hive  in  the  face.  Make  honey  under  Mulholland,  my 
dear  Mr.  Middleton!  Make  much  honey!" 

Peter  disposed  of  his  cap,  and  crossed  the  room  to 
a  double  row  of  desks  topped  by  brass  rails.  Mulholland 
was  beckoning  from  the  second  row,  the  '  Cons. '  O  'Brien, 
the  countryman,  instructor  of  youth  in  the  domestic 
habits  of  field-mice,  was  the  only  friend  in  sight.  He 
was  in  the  middle  of  the  '  Pros. '  Blotter  was  flattening 
himself  upon  the  second  desk  of  the  'Cons':  he  was  a 
picture  of  industry,  with  tongue  out  and  elbow  working 
convulsively  as  he  wrote.  The  appalling  Kilworth,  a  dis- 
solute young  man  with  a  remarkable  memory  for  dirty 
stories  and  rhymes,  was  No.  3.  Peter  took  his  place  as 
No.  4,  and  Mulholland  immediately  came  round  to  him. 

"For  the  Lord's  sake,  Middleton,  get  on  with  it!"  he 
whispered.  "We're  behind  already;  from  yesterday. 
How  Lemon  expects  me  to  keep  things  going  I  don't 
know.  That  fellow  Blotter  they  make  such  a  fuss  about 
is  little  better  than  a  shirk,  and  your  neighbour  is 
worse.  Dig  into  the  contents  of  that  basket,  old  man! 
I  rely  on  you  to  pull  us  through!" 

That  was  the  way  to  talk  to  Peter  Middleton.  He 
dug  furiously  and  cleared  the  basket  in  an  hour,  which 
was  quicker  than  Mulholland  himself  could  have  done 
it — a  senior  man  drawing  twice  his  salary.  Like  every- 
one else  outside  the  ranks  of  the  High  Officials  he  had 
the  greatest  admiration  and  liking  for  Mulholland,  who 
was  a  gentleman,  a  famous  amateur  boxer,  and  a  first- 
rate  man  at  his  job,  though  now  broken  down  through 
ten  years  of  subordination  to  'Infamous  John.'  He 
had  seen  himself  passed  over  for  promotion  again  and 
again,  had  been  spied  upon,  subjected  to  petty  insult. 


TRANSFOEMATION  243 

"He  was  too  straight,"  the  clerks  said.  He  was.  He 
had  differed  in  policy  from  Laurence  Man,  and  told 
Mr.  Lemon  the  truth  about  himself. 

Mr.  Lemon  retired  about  eleven  o  'clock,  and  a  babble 
of  conversation  broke  out. 

"Shut  up,  you  chaps!"  said  Mulholland.  "The  very 
walls  have  ears  here.  Get  on  with  the  work,  please." 

"What's  the  origin  of  'Pro'  and  'Con'?"  O'Brien 
was  asking  in  front.  No  one  knew.  He  turned  to 
inquire  of  Mulholland. 

"I  daresay  they  knew  a  hundred  years  ago.    I  don't." 

Kilworth  began  to  chant: 

"There  was  an  old  Bishop  of  Birmingham  ..." 

' '  Shut  up ! "  said  Mulholland.    ' '  Not  while  I  'm  here. ' ' 

Blotter  was  arguing  with  a  New  Entrant,  a  rosy, 
chubby-faced  boy.  "If  we  don't  like  it,  why  do  we 
stay?"  he  was  demanding  with  the  air  of  one  giving 
a  triumphant  display  of  intelligence.  Mulholland  inter- 
posed— "Because  we  are  prisoners  of  our  own  folly  or 
greed  or  cowardice,  I  imagine,"  said  he.  "A  few  fel- 
lows who  have  ties  of  marriage  or  filial  affection  might 
be  called  prisoners  of  honour.  Now  you  know,  you 
can  get  on  with  the  work,  Blotter.  You're  beastly 
slow!"  Blotter  looked  hurt. 

Then  Mulholland  went  to  Peter.  "Ledger  Six  wasn't 
posted  yesterday.  I  wish  you'd  do  that  for  us  next." 

"What's  the  good  of  the  thing?"  grumbled  Peter. 
"All  right.  I  suppose  it  must  be  done."  A  Ledger 
Six  was  ordered  to  be  kept  in  every  office  of  the  Great 
Company  as  a  duplicate  record  of  the  more  important 
transactions  of  the  day.  These  ledgers  were  collected 
every  evening  and  wheeled  across  the  street  on  a  truck 
to  the  Safe  Deposit  opposite.  During  a  hundred  and 
fifty  years  there  had  been  no  fire  in  the  buildings  oc- 
cupied by  the  Great  Company  and  not  a  single  Ledger 
Six  had  ever  been  required  for  reference,  which  was 
fortunate,  as  many  of  them  were  empty  and  certainly 
not  one  properly  posted.  In  fact,  Ledger  Six  was  a 


244  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

solemn  farce.  No  High  Official  dreamed  of  opening 
or  checking  one,  and  Ledger  Six  was  the  only  book  in 
the  office  in  which  it  was  safe  for  a  bad  writer  to  work 
rapidly.  No  clerk  had  ever  been  'downed'  on  the  evi- 
dence of  Ledger  Six, — not  even  by  Mr.  Lemon,  with 
whom  it  was  a  positive  pleasure  to  get  men  into  trouble. 
Peter  collected  the  slips  and  moved  to  the  green-covered 
book  marked  'Six.' 

' '  Hullo,  it 's  a  new  one ! "  he  said. 

"Three  days  old,"  said  Mulholland.  "They  issued 
new  books  all  round,  I  believe.  Be  as  quick  as  you  can, 
Peter,  old  man." 

Blotter  had  opened  the  ledger,  and  had  evidently  made 
it  an  excuse  for  'hanging  on,'  for  the  entries  were  in 
beautiful  copperplate.  Peter  ran  his  eye  down  the 
page  and  guessed  that  they  would  not  bear  close  ex- 
amination as  to  accuracy;  still,  regarded  as  an  exercise 
in  handwriting,  nothing  could  be  prettier.  He  was 
faced  with  a  problem.  If  he  imitated  Blotter  the  work 
of  the  'Cons'  would  drift  still  farther  behind  and  Mul- 
holland, whom  he  liked,  would  get  into  trouble.  He, 
Peter,  was  supposed  to  be  a  '  quick  man ' ;  that  is  to  say 
a  man  who  worked  hard  and  swiftly,  taking  the  at- 
tendant risk  of  incorrectness.  Now  that  he  was  mar- 
ried it  was  clearly  his  duty  to  become  a  'slow  man.' 
Besides,  he  was  too  clear-sighted  to  fail  to  recognise  the 
essential  immorality  of  neglecting  a  duty  because  other 
people  had  done  so  before  him.  Hay  anyone  save  Mul- 
holland been  in  question,  he  would  not  have  hesitated ; 
as  it  was,  to  write  up  that  valueless  ledger  with  honesty 
seemed  uncommonly  like  saving  his  own  soul  at  the  ex- 
pense of  someone  else.  That  Mulholland  would  not  re- 
proach him  for  doing  the  work  properly  and  so  landing 
the  'Cons'  in  still  further  arrears,  was  certain.  That 
he  did  not  count  on  its  happening,  was  equally  sure. 

It  is  probable  that  Peter's  decision  to  be  selfishly 
honest  was  influenced  also  by  distrust  of  Mr.  Lemon,  who 
wore  a  particularly  sly  and  greasy  air  that  morning. 
At  any  rate,  he  commenced  to  copy  with  correctness ;  and 
the  first  few  entries  were  in  the  style  of  handwriting 


TRANSFORMATION  245 

which  the  Great  Company  desired  to  impose  upon  its 
clerical  staff.  A  round,  unformed  hand  was  the  ideal 
of  the  Directorate.  An  e  would  have  caused  the  High 
Official  who  discovered  it  to  have  a  fit  upon  the  spot. 
A  handwriting  with  character  in  it — except  the  char- 
acter of  a  clerk — was  anathema,  and  its  owner  a  thing 
accursed. 

Peter  was  beginning  to  write  rapidly  in  his  natural 
hand,  which  was  legible  and  ugly ;  when  O  'Brien  turned 
and  placed  on  his  desk  an  enormous  bundle  of  vouchers. 

"What's  this?"  asked  Peter. 

"You've  got  to  post  the  'Pros'  work  as  well  as  your 
own,"  said  O'Brien.  "It's  a  new  rule,  my  boy." 

"Is  that  right?"  Peter  called  to  Mulholland. 

"I'm  sorry  to  say  it  is." 

"That's  the  limit!"  thought  Peter.  "Holly  will  be 
absolutely  up  a  gum-tree  if  I  spend  the  whole  day  over 
these  infernal  vouchers.  He  increased  his  speed,  albeit 
with  inward  misgivings,  and  began  to  turn  over  five 
or  six  at  a  time  instead  of  one,  and  to  leave  out  many 
names  from  those  he  did  copy.  In  another  half  hour 
he  was  finishing,  and  still  Lemon  had  not  returned.  It 
was  evident  that  Ledger  Six  had  not  been  taken  into 
consideration  when  the  work  was  shared  out.  Indeed 
this  did  not  happen  in  any  office,  which  caused  a  con- 
scientious person  like  Blotter  to  be  a  thorn  in  the  flesh 
of  the  Senior  Clerk,  who  got  most  of  the  blame  if  the 
work  were  behind ;  the  High  Official  usually  managing 
to  shift  his  responsibility  to  the  shoulders  of  his  sub- 
ordinate. 

Now  a  pasty-faced,  stout  boy  of  eighteen  came  in  from 
the  next  room  and  called  out,  "Who's  doing  Ledger  Six?" 

"A badly  bitten  by  a badger!"  Kilworth 

informed  him,  for  this  was  the  victim  of  the  fieldmouse 
hoax.  "Sick  'em,  Jones!" 

"No,  is  it  you?"  inquired  young  Jones  innocently  of 
O'Brien. 

"I  have  indeed  been  bitten  by  a  badger "  began 

O'Brien,  with  intense  gravity;  but  Peter  interrupted. 

' '  —I  've  just  finished, ' '  he  said.    ' '  What  is  it,  Billy  ? ' ' 


246  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

"Semple  told  me  to  come,  in  case  you  hadn't  heard." 

"Heard  what?" 

"He  said  Lemon  was  such  a  mean  old  devil  he  might 
not  tell  you.  Did  he?" 

"Tell  me  what,  you  young  ass?" 

"Man  is  coming  round  to-day  to  inspect  the  Ledger 
Sixes  in  every  office." 

"What!" 

"  It 's  a  fact !  One  of  the  Highos  heard  him  arranging 
it  with  Lemon." 

"That  simply  isn't  possible,  Billy.  You're  having 
me  on." 

"  I  'm  not,  on  my  honour !  He  walked  in  with  Lemon 
this  morning, — Man  did,  I  mean.  Anyway,  however  it 
leaked  out,  he's  coming!" 

"What  time?" 

"How  should  I  know,  man?" 

"Good  Lord!"  said  Peter. 

A  big  voice  rumbled  from  the  doorway.  "Good- 
morning,  Master  Jones!  It's  a  pleasure  to  see  you, 
don't  hurry  away!  He's  gone!  What  a  singular 
.youngster!"  Lemon  panted  to  his  desk  and  settled 
there.  He  was  very  short  of  breath  this  morning.  ' '  Mul- 
holland !  Ledger  Six  and  its  vouchers,  if  you  please. ' ' 

"Not  finished  yet,  sir,"  said  Mulholland  readily,  with 
a  side-glance  at  dumbfounded  Peter. 

"Never  mind,  Mr.  Mulholland,  never  mind!  Let  me 
have  them  at  once,  please,  finished  or  unfinished." 

Peter  had  no  choice  but  to  carry  them  across.  He 
knew  now  that  he  was  lost. 

"Ah,  it's  Peter  Middleton!  Lay  them  down  here, 
Peter.  Many  thanks!  Our  Acting  Managing  Director, 
Mr.  Laurence  Man ' ' — he  rolled  the  name  on  his  tongue — 
"proposes  to  inspect  Ledger  Six  this  morning.  He  has 
just  told  me  so,  and  perhaps  a  little  preliminary 
examination  on  my  part  would  be  judicious.  ...  Go 
back  to  your  desk,  Middleton,"  he  concluded  sharply. 

Peter  went.  It  was  a  dream  that  a  few  hours  ago  he 
had  been  married  to  Cynthia.  He  did  not  see  the 
sympathetic  faces  of  'Pros'  and  'Cons'  as  he  passed 


TRANSFORMATION  247 

by.  He  understood  everything,  saw  that  he  was  trapped. 
He  even  knew  where  Laurence  Man  was  at  this  moment. 
He  was  in  Department  A,  just  far  enough  distant  to 
enable  Mr.  Lemon  to  check  the  Ledger  before  he  should 
arrive. 

Mulholland  acted  promptly  and  with  decision.  He 
took  a  paper  for  Mr.  Lemon  to  sign,  and  asked  a  ques- 
tion about  the  potting  of  fuchsias.  The  High  Official 
would  not  be  drawn  into  conversation.  He  continued 
to  work  with  greedy  swiftness. 

"Your  handwriting  is  disgraceful,  Middleton,"  he 
called  across  the  room. 

"Anything  worse  than  handwriting?"  whispered 
Mulholland. 

"Of  course,"  said  Peter. 

"Sorry,  old  man!    I'm  beastly  sorry." 

"It  wasn't  your  fault,  Holly.  Don't  let  yourself  in, 
for  goodness'  sake.  One's  enough  for  them  to  down. 
Lemon  knows  now.  Look  at  him  grinning." 

"Poor  old !"  said  Kilworth,  patting  Peter  on 

the  back. 

' '  Damn  you,  shut  up ! "  whispered  Peter. 

Laurence  Man  entered,  in  morning  clothes  with  violets 
in  his  buttonhole.  He  was  tall,  good-looking,  and  well- 
made;  but  his  impressiveness  was  marred  by  his  thin, 
uninspiring  voice.  He  was  frowning.  "Good-morning, 
gentlemen!"  he  said,  irritably.  "Ah,  you  are  there, 
Mr.  Lemon!"  Lemon  rose  and  greeted  him  and  spoke 
rapidly  in  a  low  tone.  "Certainly!"  said  Laurence, 
with  raised  eyebrows.  .  .  .  "Yes,  yes,  by  all  means,  Mr. 
Lemon.  I  will  deal  with  it  at  once. ' '  The  audience  with 
one  exception  was  affecting  to  be  engrossed  in  work. 

"You  are  not  working,  Middleton,"  remarked 
Laurence,  stopping  on  his  way  to  the  door  in  front 
of  the  'Pros,'  who  instantly  lowered  their  eyes  to  their 
books  like  a  row  of  schoolboys  surprised  by  the  head- 
master. 

A  slow  fury  was  rising  in  Peter.  "No,"  he  acknowl- 
edged in  a  dull  voice. 

Laurence  nodded  to  Mulholland.     "Give  him  some- 


248  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

thing  to  do!"  he  said,  and  went  out.  A  moment  later 
Mr.  Lemon  followed  with  the  ledger  and  vouchers. 

"Sack  for  you,  Peter!"  said  Kil worth.  "I  wouldn't 
be  in  your  shoes." 

"Look  at  'Old  Them'!"  said  O'Brien. 

Blotter  was  white  and  trembling.  "What's  the  mat- 
ter with  you,  you  rabbit?"  asked  Kilworth. 

"I  hope  they  don't  check  mine!"  quavered  the 
virtuous  apprentice. 

"You  needn't  be  afraid!"  said  Peter,  bitterly. 
"They  won't  check  back.  They  know  too  much  for 
that.  It  would  let  in  too  many  people  and  make  a 
scandal.  No,  they'll  pretend  I'm  the  only  villain  in  the 
place — if  the  other  offices  have  got  their  ledgers  right, 
as  they  probably  had  time  to  do.  Besides,  they  can't 
check  back!  Yesterday's  vouchers  are  all  sorted  up." 

' '  Much  Man  would  care  for  that ! ' '  said  Blotter.  ' '  He 
wouldn't  mind  how  much  work  he  gave!"  He  buried 
himself  disconsolately  in  his  ledger. 

"You're  in  charge  while  I'm  away,  Blotter,"  said 
Mulholland  in  a  brisk  tone,  taking  off  his  office  coat. 

"I  say,  don't,"  begged  Peter.  "Really  you  can't  do 
any  good,  Holly !  It  wasn  't  your  fault.  Don 't  you  see 
they've  got  me  fixed?  Besides,  Man  has  got  a  grudge 
against  me,  a  private  one."  Mulholland  whistled  and 
sat  down. 

"Sorry,  Peter,"  he  said,  drawing  on  his  coat.  "He 
won't  listen  to  me,  then." 

Young  Mainwaring,  the  bumptious  youth  whom  Peter 
had  encountered  in  the  courtyard  on  his  return  from 
leave,  now  put  in  an  appearance. 

"The  Managing  Director  wants  specimens  of  Middle- 
ton  's  handwriting  in  the  ordinary  work  of  the  office, ' '  he 
said  superciliously  to  Mulholland.  ' '  I  suppose  you  're  in 
charge  he-ah?" 

"You'll  have  to  go  to  Brown,"  said  Mulholland. 
"This  is  Middleton's  first  day  in  this  office  for  months." 

"Oh,  all  right!"  said  the  youth,  and  vanished. 

Half  an  hour  passed,  which  Peter  for  Mulholland 's 
sake  spent  in  work.  A  quantity  of  people  came  in  to 


TRANSFORMATION  249 

sympathise  and  got  short  answers  for  their  pains.  Most 
of  them  were  only  curious ;  Semple  was  genuinely  moved. 
They  discussed  the  probable  punishment,  congratulating 
themselves  on  their  own  escape.  O'Brien  joined  Mul- 
holland  in  the  task  of  disposing  of  them  one  by  one. 
It  appeared  that  three  more  men  had  been  'run  up'  on 
account  of  handwriting,  two  from  D  and  one  from  H; 
all  had  been  reprimanded  on  the  spot  by  'Lordly 
Laurence '  and  told  they  would  hear  of  it  further.  Peter 
remained  the  principal  scapegoat,  and  it  was  entirely  a 
matter  for  Laurence's  generosity  what  should  be  done 
with  him.  These  well-meaning  babblers  intensified  the 
agony  of  the  time  of  waiting.  ' '  Get  out,  you  inquisitive 
fool,"  ordered  Mulholland  at  regular  intervals,  and 

0  'Brien  went  on  saying,  ' '  Leave  Peter  alone.    Clear  out 
of  the  office  at  once,"  but  they  could  not  do  more  than 
keep  the  procession  on  the  move. 

Semple  returned  at  about  twenty  minutes  after  twelve 
to  give  a  message  from  Mr.  Brown.  ; '  You  might  slip  in 
and  see  Brown, ' '  he  said  to  Peter.  ' '  I  'd  change  my  office 
coat  if  I  were  you.  I  daresay  he'll  take  you  to  the  Man- 
aging Director.  I  know  he 's  been  speaking  up  for  you. ' ' 

Peter  called  to  Mulholland.    "Brown  wants  me!" 

' '  Good  luck  to  you,  Peter.  Come  back  as  soon  as  you 
can." 

Mr.  Brown  wore  a  sad  and  serious  face.  His  short- 
sighted blue  eyes  peered  towards  the  door  as  the  two 
clerks  entered  his  office.  Then  he  beckoned,  calling, 
' ' Mid-dleton.  Come  here,  if  you  please!"  Peter  ap- 
proached, and  the  kind  old  man  said  in  a  low  voice, 
"You  have  done  very  wrong,  Mid-dleton;  I  am  afraid 
you  will  suffer  for  it  very  se-verely.  I  have  done  what  I 
could.  I  was  able  con-scientious-ly  to  speak  most  highly 
of  your,  work  and  I  know  more  of  you  than  does  Mr. 
Lemon  or  Mr.  Mar-tin.  You  will  un-derstand  how  much 

1  am  trusting  you  when  I  say  that  I  was  asked  to  re- 
consider my  good  report  in  view  of  others  less  favour- 
able.    I  fear  it  is  intended  to  make  an  ex-ample,  Mid- 
dleton.     I  wish  to  warn  you  not  to  at-tempt  to  ex-cuse 
that  for  which  there  can  be  no  excuse!     Mr.  Man  is 


250  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

just;  and  he  will  be  in-fluen-ced  by  your  good  record 
if  you  ad-mit  your  fault." 

' '  There 's  always  been  laxity  in  regard  to  Ledger  Six, 
sir!"  said  Peter.  "It  ought  to  have  been  checked. 
Why  should  I  be  made  a  scapegoat  for  the  whole  staff  ? 
There's  a  chap  in  another  Department  who  remembers 
Mr.  Man  himself  entering  a  lot  of  riddles  in  the  ledger. ' ' 

"That  may  or  may  not  be  so,  Mid-dleton.  I  doubt  it. 
Mr.  Man  asked  me  whether  I  had  ever  neg-lected  to  post 
Ledger  Six  either  as  a  junior  or  in  after-years,  and  I  told 
him  no.  He  did  not  ask  me  my  ex-perience  of  others. 
Be  warned  by  me,  Mid-dleton,  and  do  not  attempt  to  give 
yours.  And,  my  boy,  if  your  punishment  is  very  hard, 
re-member  that  there  is  One  Above  Who  sees  all  things ; 
Who  is  merciful  and  swift  to  for-give.  You  will  find 
corn-fort  if  you  take  your  trouble  to  Him.  Now  go  and 
tell  Mr.  Mul-holland  that  Mr.  Lemon  is  gone  to  Coutts' 
Bank  and  will  not  be  back  until  after  lunch,  and  that 
you  are  to  re-port  yourself  at  the  Managing  Di-rector's 
office  at  one." 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  said  Peter. 

Laurence  kept  him  waiting  forty  minutes  in  the  lobby, 
in  the  company  of  two  gorgeously-liveried  porters,  while 
Peter's  mind  whirled  in  unceasing,  useless  revolutions 
like  those  of  a  squirrel  within  the  wheel  of  its  cage.  He 
was  a  prisoner  like  the  squirrel.  He  was  caught  in  a 
trap  from  which  there  was  no  escape.  He  could  only 
defend  himself  by  implicating  others.  His  sole  hope  lay 
in  the  generosity  of  Laurence  Man,  who  did  not  know 
the  meaning  of  that  quality.  The  most  immoral  part  of 
the  whole  business  was  its  entire  lack  of  necessity. 
Laurence  had  only  to  say  to  the  High  Officials,  ' '  See  that 
Ledger  Six  is  carefully  checked  in  future  after  being 
written  up.  I  remember  when  I  was  a  junior  it  was  not 
properly  kept  and  I  intend  to  alter  that.  The  re- 
sponsibility is  yours  as  Heads  of  Department.  I  shall 
examine  the  books  myself  from  time  to  time,"  and  his 
purpose  would  have  been  served.  But  what  had  hap- 
pened was  characteristic  of  the  Great  Company,  whose 
policy  was  to  rule  by  terror.  Peter  could  not  believe  that 


TRANSFORMATION  251 

any  of  the  High  Officials  had  been  unaware  of  the  value- 
lessness  of  Ledger  Six  as  a  record.  Yet  they  had  es- 
caped, while  he  the  most  junior  person  involved  (but, 
as  he  was  inclined  to  forget,  the  actual  offender)  was 
about  to  endure  the  whole  weight  of  the  Company's 
wrath.  The  injustice  of  it  brought  the  blood  to  his 
cheeks  and  for  a  moment  made  him  feel  physically  sick. 
As  the  long  minutes  ticked  themselves  away  his  resent- 
ment grew  side  by  side  with  his  fears.  At  last  Laurence 's 
bell  sounded  within  the  great  mahogany  doors  and  one 
of  the  porters  hastened  to  answer  it. 

Peter  rose,  with  a  sense  of  bodily  fatigue,  when  he 
heard  his  name  called,  and  passed  through  the  doorway 
feeling  as  though  his  footsteps  stumbled.  There  was  a 
purring  sound  and  a  slight  click  behind  him  as  the  porter 
shut  him  in  with  Laurence,  and  then  ensued  a  long 
silence  while  the  latter  stooped  over  page  after  page  of  a 
stitched  foolscap  report  which  lay  open  in  front  of  him. 

The  Managing  Director's  office  was  a  large,  square 
room  lighted  by  two  very  lofty  windows ;  it  had  massive 
mahogany  furniture  and  a  Wilton  carpet  of  deep  sombre 
purple,  thick-piled,  noiseless  to  the  feet.  Laurence  was 
seated  at  a  writing-table  whose  polished  rails  began  to 
shine  dazzlingly.  Peter  saw  him  now  through  a  bar  of 
light  filled  with  dancing  motes  and,  thus  lit,  his  regular 
features  had  a  saintly  beauty  until  he  raised  his  head  and 
the  thinness  of  his  lips  became  evident. 

At  length  he  sat  back  in  his  padded  revolving-chair 
and  stared  at  Peter,  who  was  standing  beside  a  '  visitor 's ' 
arm-chair  covered  with  green  pegamoid.  The  chair  was 
on  Peter's  right  hand,  slightly  forward;  his  downcast 
eyes  were  wearily  examining  the  texture  of  the  leather. 

' '  Middleton ! "  said  Laurence,  sharply.  Peter  looked 
up  at  him  with  set  face. 

"You  were,  I  suppose,  aware  of  the  purpose  for  which 
Ledger  Six  was  ordered  to  be  kept?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

Laurence  gave  him  no  time  to  add  to  the  simple  affirma- 
tive which  was  his  condemnation.  ' '  And  therefore  of  its 
importance  and  value.  I  find  certain  entries  made  in 


252  ,         THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

your  handwriting  under  to-day 's  date  in  the  Ledger  Six 
belonging  to  B  Department.  Do  you  acknowledge 
them?" 

"Yes." 

"They  are  incorrect  and  incomplete.  Do  you  admit 
this?" 

"I  suppose  I  must." 

"Do  you  or  do  you  not  admit  it,  Middleton?" 

"Yes,  I  do." 

"It  is  clearly  unnecessary  to  ask  you  whether  your 
fault  was  wilful,  for  unless  it  were  so  you  would  not  be 
able  to  make  the  admission  you  have  just  made. ' '  Peter 
was  silent.  Laurence  did  not  take  his  eyes  from  his  face. 
"Do  you  confess  that  you  posted  Ledger  Six  incor- 
rectly and  incompletely,  knowing  what  you  were  doing, 
intending  your  entries  to  be  incorrect  and  incomplete  ? ' ' 

"I  haven't  denied  it,  have  I?" 

"I  don't  want  to  know  whether  you  have  denied  it. 
I  want  to  know  whether  you  acknowledge  it." 

"Well,  I  do,  but " 

"Stop,  Middleton!  You  will  not  make  things  better 
by  attempting  to  excuse  yourself.  You  have  been  false 
to  the  trust  which  your  employers  put  in  you " 

"Certainly  not!"  interrupted  Peter,  boldly. 
Laurence's  eyes  narrowed  to  slits  and  then  opened 
wide ;  he  glanced  down,  picked  up  an  ebony  paper-knife 
from  the  desk  and  twisted  it  about  in  his  fingers.  If 
he  was  disappointed  there  was  no  sign  of  it  in  his 
manner,  which  was  bored  and  indifferent. 

' ' Worse  and  worse, ' '  said  he.    "I  have  warned  you. ' ' 

Peter  hesitated,  then  he  said  in  a  bitter  tone,  "It's 
no  good.  You've  got  me  fairly  trapped,  sir.  I  can't 
defend  myself  without  letting  someone  else  in." 

"Do  you  allege  that  Mr.  Mulholland  instructed  you 
to  falsify  Ledger  Six?"  asked  Laurence  smoothly,  with- 
out looking  up. 

"No,  I  don't.  I  do  say  though  that  the  Ledger  ought 
to  have  been  checked  and  never  was." 

"So  do  I ! "  said  Laurence,  sitting  up  and  throwing 
down  the  paper-knife.  ' '  I  have  said  it  pretty  emphatic- 


TRANSFORMATION  253 

ally!  But  that  is  no  defence  to  you.  On  the  contrary, 
it  proves  that  great  dependence  was  placed  on  your 
honour.  Others  appear  to  have  seen  it  in  that  light,  for 
I  found  no  incorrectness  in  the  Ledgers  Six  of  the  rest 
of  the  Departments.  What?  What  is  that?  Do  you 
wish  to  say  anything?" 

"No,"  said  Peter,  sullenly. 

"You  will  understand  of  course  that  our  private 
acquaintanceship  cannot  stand  in  the  way  of  my  doing 
my  duty.  I  have  examined  your  record.  It  is  un- 
satisfactory as  to  handwriting.  I  note  that  reports  have 
been  called  for  on  five  occasions,  and  your  writing  in 
this  Ledger  Six  is  a  disgrace  to  the  Company.  Mr. 
Brown  alone  among  the  High  Officials  speaks  well  of  your 
work.  I  am  afraid  it  is  my  duty  on  behalf  of  the  Director- 
ate to  give  you  a  month's  notice  from  this  date.  I  am  sorry 
that  this  should  have  happened  to  you,  Middleton " 

"That's  a  lie!"  said  Peter,  white  and  trembling. 
"You're  damned  glad!" 

Laurence  broke  into  a  smile,  glaring  at  him.  He 
rang  the  bell  on  his  desk.  "Tell  the  Cashier,"  he  said 
to  the  porter  who  came  in,  "with  my  compliments,  to 
have  Mr.  Middleton 's  salary  calculated  up  to  date  ready 
for  him  in  ten  minutes'  time.  That  is  all."  When 
the  man  was  gone  he  said  to  Peter  in  a  tone  of  rising 
fury,  "You  are  dismissed  at  once,  with  disgrace.  You 
don't  give  me  credit  for  honesty.  Your  conceit  won't 
let  you  think  I  really  disapprove  of  you  as  a  clerk. 
Why,  you  fool,  I  would  stamp  your  type  out  of  business 
life  altogether  if  I  had  the  power  to  do  it!  I'd  dis- 
miss every  solitary  one  of  you  without  compunction. 
From  the  point  of  view  of  the  man  who  has  to  depend 
on  your  work  you  're  all  silly,  sentimental  incompetents ! 
Even  if  you  had  not  been  Peter  Middleton — Peter  Mid- 
dleton ! ' ' — his  voice  shook  on  the  repetition  of  the  hated 
name — ' '  I  would  have  got  rid  of  you  for  what  you  have 
done  to-day.  Go !  Go ! "  He  pressed  the  bell  again  and 
again,  leaning  forward  over  his  desk  with  a  face  of 
passion.  Once  more  the  door  opened  behind  Peter  and 
this  time  he  turned  and  stumbled  out  of  the  room. 


II 

PETER  stood  in  the  corridor  outside  the  entrance  to  the 
Cashier's  office,  stood  and  shivered  like  a  man  in  a 
fever.  He  was  seeing  red,  and  all  the  time  his  under- 
consciousness  was  reminding  him  that  he  alone  was  to 
blame.  He  had  chosen  to  take  the  risk  and  now  he  must 
pay  the  penalty,  though  his  accomplices  numbering  nine- 
tenths  of  the  staff  of  the  Great  Company  escaped  scot- 
free.  He  had  known  perfectly  well  that  the  High 
Officials  whose  connivance  had  rendered  possible  the  gen- 
eral neglect  of  Ledger  Six  did  not  possess  the  courage  or 
the  honesty  to  take  open  responsibility  for  it  if  detected, 
also  that  Mr.  Lemon  in  particular  was  capable  of  the 
meanest  treachery  to  his  staff,  also  that  the  Managing 
Director's  sense  of  fairness  was  not  a  highly  developed 
characteristic,  all  of  which  things  had  increased  the  risk 
he  was  taking.  Also  he  had  known  that  his  action  in  as- 
sisting Mulholland  at  the  expense  of  Ledger  Six  was 
ethically  indefensible  in  spite  of  the  valuelessness  of  the 
Ledger.  He  had  sacrificed  his  own  honesty  for  a  man 
who  would  never  have  asked  for  the  sacrifice  although 
unable  to  conceal  that  he  was  hoping  for  it ;  and  no  one  in 
the  world  would  understand !  There  was  a  vague  impres- 
sion in  his  mind  that  somewhere  or  other  people  existed 
who  might  sympathise,  but  he  could  not  remember  who 
they  were.  He  was  seeing  red,  longing  to  thrash  Lemon 
before  leaving  the  building  for  the  last  time.  The  old 
devil !  If  only  he  were  younger,  younger,  younger !  To 
feel  the  crushing  impact  of  one 's  fist  against  the  flesh  and 
bones  of  his  face ;  to  see  him  falling  in  a  heap,  lying  out- 
stretched while  someone  counted  .  .  .  eight :  nine :  ten !  .  . . 
Semple  passed  by  in  a  hurry ;  but  glancing  round  saw 
Peter  and  turned.  "Old  chap!"  he  exclaimed.  "You 

look queer!" 

254 


TRANSFORMATION  255 

' '  I  'm  sacked ! ' '  said  Peter. 

"Poor  old  boy!  I  was  afraid  they  had  you  fairly 
caught!  Really,  I'm  sorry,  awfully  sorry." 

"Take  the  key  of  ray  desk  and  give  it  to" — he  could 
scarcely  bring  himself  to  say  it — "to  Lemon,  will  you, 
and  get  my  hat.  I  'm  not  going  into  the  office.  I  should 
tell  him  off  if  I  did,  and  he  wouldn't  understand.  .  .  . 
He  isn't  worth  it." 

Semple  would  have  liked  to  be  present  at  a  telling-off 
of  Lemon,  but  good  feeling  towards  Peter  prevailed  and 
he  did  the  errand  without  making  any  attempt  to  alter 
his  decision.  Also  he  was  considerate  enough  not  to 
bring  back  with  him  a  crowd  of  curious  sympathisers. 
When  he  returned  Peter  was  inside  drawing  his  salary. 
He  came  out  looking  like  a  stone  image,  as  Semple  said 
afterwards,  took  the  hat,  shook  hands  and  went  off 
without  a  word.  Semple  watched  him  out  of  sight,  then 
went  on  up  to  lunch,  whistling. 

Meanwhile  Peter  had  passed  through  the  familiar 
archway  into  the  street  and  was  walking  steadily  towards 
the  west,  his  mind  benumbed.  The  circumstances  of  his 
downfall  were  present  in  his  sub-consciousness.  He  knew 
of  them  but  could  not  think  about  them.  He  turned 
mechanically  into  an  A.B.C.  in  Newgate  Street  and 
ordered  a  cup  of  coffee,  and  having  drunk  it  he  was 
conscious  of  hunger  and  asked  for  beef-steak  pudding, 
although  there  seemed  to  him  something  peculiarly 
ludicrous  and  dreadful  in  eating  beefsteak  pudding  after 
what  had  happened.  The  natural  actions  of  life  were 
no  longer  natural,  he  felt;  with  a  sudden  flow  of  self- 
pity,  followed  by  an  aching  need  for  sympathy.  Who 
would  understand,  forgive  a  man  dismissed  peremptorily, 
turned  out  in  disgrace  as  he  was?  Who?  Who? 
Quite  automatically  his  mind  told  him  Cynthia  and 
Shaun,  two  names  without  identity  for  an  instant;  and 
then  they  became  a  single  name  which  had  identity  and 
Peter  Middleton  started  back  on  the  red  plush  seat, 
thinking  in  horror  of  Cynthia,  his  wife. 

Yes,  Cynthia  would  understand, — she  loved  him;  his 
first  impulse  was  to  telephone  without  delay  and  satisfy 


256  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

his  agonised  longing  to  hear  her  voice.  One  considera- 
tion restrained  him.  The  Bremners'  telephone  was  in  the 
hall  and  the  hour  was  nearly  that  of  lunch,  so  Cynthia's 
words  might  be  overheard;  moreover,  it  might  be 
difficult  to  get  her  to  the  instrument,  as  Lady  Bremner 
liked  to  answer  telephone  calls.  Lady  Bremner  was 
leaving  London  in  the  evening,  she  was  travelling  by  the 
night  train  to  the  north;  late  in  the  evening  would  be 
the  time  to  speak  to  Cynthia.  A  moment  afterwards  he 
was  thanking  God  that  his  first  selfish  instinct  to  share 
his  trouble  had  been  checked;  Cynthia  must  not  know 
until  he  had  consulted  Shaun.  Now  Peter  began  to 
realise  how  what  he  had  done  had  wronged  her.  He 
paid  his  bill,  passed  out  into  the  street,  and  went  and 
hid  himself  in  the  only  place  where  a  man  may  be 
altogether  alone  in  a  city,  and  when  the  door  was  bolted 
was  shaken  by  a  terrible  sobbing  which  left  him  weak 
and  faint.  As  he  went  out  the  attendant  stared  at  him, 
following  to  the  steps,  but  did  not  speak;  and  Peter 
hurried  at  his  best  pace  towards  Shaun 's  lodgings. 

Shaun  was  not  in,  and  Peter  made  his  way  through 
the  busy,  sunshiny  streets  to  the  Adelphi  and  entered 
the  lobby  of  the  Savage  Club.  The  porter  gave  one 
glance  at  him  and  said,  "Mr.  James  has  not  been  here 
to-day,  sir."  Peter  thanked  him  and  went.  It  was 
clear  that  all  trace  of  Shaun  was  lost,  and  he  could  think 
of  nothing  better  to  do  than  to  go  home  and  write  to 
Cynthia.  Even  though  he  did  not  send  the  letter  the 
writing,  the  pouring  out  of  himself,  would  be  a  relief. 

On  the  'bus  the  beauty  of  the  day  seemed  an  irony, 
the  unfamiliar  aspect  of  the  pavements  of  Piccadilly 
struck  him  with  a  kind  of  wonder.  Outside  St.  George 's 
Hospital  a  collision  appeared  inevitable  and  the  passers- 
by  called  out  in  alarm.  Peter  did  not  lean  forward, 
although  it  was  his  vehicle  which  was  in  peril  and  at 
fault;  he  felt  a  dull  disappointment  when  the  crash  did 
not  come,  and  had  forgotten  the  incident  before  the 
shouting  ceased. 

It  was  close  on  three  o'clock  when  he  dismounted  in 
front  of  Barker's  and  crossed  the  road  to  Church  Street. 


TRANSFORMATION  257 

The  bells  of  St.  Mary  Abbot's  were  ringing;  there 
were  carriages  at  the  gate  and  a  crowd  gathered  in  the 
churchyard  and  outside.  He  scarcely  glanced  at  them, 
and  passed  on  towards  his  own  tall  house  at  the  corner 
of  a  side-turning  on  the  left :  his  rooms  were  at  the  top 
overlooking  the  Barracks,  high  above  the  traffic,  giving 
the  occupant  a  delightful  sense  of  space  and  seclusion. 
He  stared  up  at  his  window  as  though  he  expected  to 
see  a  face  there, — his  own  or  Cynthia's,  in  his  vague, 
strange  thoughts, — and  coming  back  to  reason  moved 
to  the  front  door,  which  was  up  the  side-street,  let 
himself  in  and  climbed  the  steep  staircase,  familiar  and 
yet  oddly  unfamiliar  since  he  was  looking  at  it  with  new 
eyes.  He  noticed  the  dusty  yellow  and  black  of  the  oil- 
cloth beneath  his  feet  and  could  not  concentrate  enough 
to  form  a  clear  impression  of  the  pattern,  which  altered 
on  the  top  landing, — or  was  it  merely  that  the  light 
was  brighter,  or  the  linoleum  newer  and  less  worn? 
Before  he  could  decide  he  was  in  his  sitting-room  and 
had  become  aware  of  a  letter  on  the  table. 

He  picked  it  up  and  held  it  in  his  hand  a  moment 
before  looking  at  it.  Then,  having  opened  it,  he  took  off 
and  threw  down  his  straw  hat  and  seated  himself  before 
the  table.  The  letter  was  not  from  Cynthia.  The  type- 
written address  had  told  him  that. 

Dear  Sir,  it  began.  Peter  glanced  overleaf  at  the 
signature.  West,  Hawkins  and  Bere  told  him  nothing, 
nor  did  the  address  of  the  firm,  which  was  a  street  in 
Bath. 

Dear  Sir, 

We  are  instructed  by  a  client  to  place  at  your  dis- 
posal the  sum  of  five  hundred  pounds  sterling  (£500)  on 
receiving  from  you  in  writing  an  honourable  undertak- 
ing to  comply  with  the  following  two  conditions. 

(1)  Not  to  attempt  to  discover  the  name  of  the  donor. 

(2)  Should  the  identity  of  the  donor  be  guessed  or  ac- 
cidentally revealed,  not  to  express  thanks  and  not  to 
refer  to  the  gift  directly  or  by  implication. 

On  our  receiving  from  you  such  an  undertaking  clear- 


258  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

ly  expressed,  property  in  the  above  named  sum  (five  hun- 
dred pounds)  will  become  vested  in  you,  and  we  shall  be 
glad  if  you  will  favour  us  with  your  instructions  as  to 
disposal. 

In  conclusion,  we  beg  to  state  that  our  client  has  en- 
trusted us  with  a  message,  which  we  transmit  verbatim. 
'This  gift  may  be  regarded  as  an  act  of  restitution  and 
does  not  call  for  gratitude.  Nothing  more  is  to  be  ex- 
pected from  the  same  quarter.' 

Awaiting  your  instructions,  which  shall  be  promptly 
carried  out. 

We  remain, 

Yours  faithfully, 

West,  Hawkins  and  Bere. 
PETER  MIDDLETON,  ESQ., 
1276,  Church  Street, 
Kensington,  W. 

The  walls  swam  round  before  Peter's  eyes  as  he  looked 
up  from  the  paper.  His  heart  sang  with  joy.  When  he 
had  recovered  his  self-possession  a  little  he  heard  him- 
self repeating,  "Joy  cometh  in  the  morning!  Joy 
cometh  in  the  morning!"  in  a  rush  of  happiness  and 
thanks  to  God  which  was  almost  terrible  in  its  intensity, 
conveying  to  his  mind  the  measure  of  his  former  despair. 
He  did  not  doubt  he  had  guessed  the  name  of  his  bene- 
factor,— it  could  be  no  one  but  Aunt  Janet,  who  alone 
of  his  acquaintance  lived  at  Bath.  Moreover  she  had 
not  been  on  good  terms  with  his  father  and  Peter  knew 
that  the  disagreement  between  them  had  originated  in 
a  matter  of  business.  The  recollection  of  this  was  fresh 
in  his  memory  because  Shaun  had  questioned  him  fairly 
closely  about  his  rich  aunt,  and  he  had  been  careful  to 
withhold  from  his  friend  the  fact  that  his  father  had 
considered  himself  wronged,  the  knowledge  of  which 
Major  Middleton  would  have  wished  his  son  to  keep  to 
himself.  Peter  knew  no  details  of  what  had  happened 
in  the  past. 

It  was  just  possible  that  Shaun  had  written  to  Aunt 
Janet  to  plead  with  her.  He  would  ask  him  that,  al- 
though he  was  sure  what  the  answer  would  be.  Indeed 


TRANSFORMATION  259 

Shaun  did  not  know  the  old  lady 's  address  in  Bath.  No, 
Aunt  Janet  had  done  it  of  her  own  accord,  and  it  was 
splendid !  Peter  felt  as  a  man  might  who  perceived  the 
sun  burst  out  unnaturally  in  a  stormy  sky  and  flood  the 
world  with  light.  He  marvelled.  And  went  on  wonder- 
ing for  several  minutes  before  it  occurred  to  him  that 
the  paper  he  was  twisting  between  his  fingers  contained 
power.  Five  hundred  pounds!  That  was  two  hundred 
pounds  for  two  years  and  one  hundred  pounds  over, 
or  one  hundred  and  fifty  for  three  years  and  fifty 
pounds  over, — it  meant  Cynthia !  And  full  of  joy,  with- 
out pausing  to  think,  he  rushed  for  writing  materials 
and  wrote  two  letters.  The  first  was  addressed  to  West, 
Hawkins  and  Bere,  and  the  second  ran  as  follows: 

Darling, 

I  have  got  the  sack  from  the  Great  Company,  my 
own  fault  and  I  can  never  forgive  myself,  but  in  a  way  it 
does  not  matter,  as  Aunt  Janet  has  sent  five  hundred 
pounds.  Darling  I  love  you  and  I'm  so  excited  I  can't 
write  properly.  Will  you  ~be  at  Waterloo  under  the 
clock  to-morrow  with  luggage  at  10.45  a.m.  to  go  to 
Camelford  to  a  place  Shaun  knows  of,  will  you  darling  f 

Peter. 

Without  re-reading  it  he  sent  this  off  by  the  hand  of 
his  landlord's  little  son,  entreating  him  to  hurry,  and 
began  to  look  for  the  memorandum  which  Shaun  had 
given  of  the  address  of  the  farm  on  the  Cornish  moor. 
In  vain  he  hunted  in  drawers  and  strong-box  and  writ- 
ing-case, his  confusion  of  mind  being  so  great  and  the 
events  of  the  early  morning  so  apparently  distant  that 
moments  passed  before  it  occurred  to  him  to  search  in 
his  own  pockets,  where  the  paper  was  immediately  found. 
"I  was  married  to-day!"  he  said  aloud  in  the  shock  of 
his  surprise,  and  then,  attacked  by  sudden  restlessness, 
ran  downstairs  and  out.  After  telegraphing  to  Cornwall 
he  rang  up  the  Bremners  from  the  Post  Office,  and  a 
feminine  voice  told  him  that  Miss  Bremner  was  not  at 
home.  Recognising  the  mother's  voice  he  trembled, 


260  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

thanked  her  and  rang  off.  He  felt  relieved  to  remember 
the  disguised  handwriting  on  the  envelope  of  his  letter. 
Why  had  he  been  so  impatient  ?  Why  had  he  not  waited 
until  Lady  Bremner  was  gone?  How  horrible  were 
these  disguises  and  subterfuges!  He  did  not  know 
whether  what  he  had  done  was  bold  and  wise,  or  colos- 
sally  selfish.  A  legion  of  doubts  assailed  him.  To  escape 
from  them  he  taxied  to  Panton  Street  and  was  fortunate 
enough  to  find  Shaun  in. 

Shaun  steadied  him  with  a  cup  of  tea,  listening  with  a 
very  serious  face.  When  Peter  had  talked  himself  to  a 
standstill,  he  said,  "Man  would  have  found  an  excuse 
to  sack  you  in  any  case  sooner  or  later.  That  place 
was  no  good,  Peter.  It's  odd  to  think  of  that  five  hun- 
dred lying  at  home  all  the  while;  rather  an  effective 
situation,  I  think." 

"I  say,  Shaun,"  interrupted  Peter.  "Did  you  ask 
Aunt  Janet  to  help  me?" 

"Should  I  tell  you  if  I  had?  As  a  matter  of  fact  I 
did  not,  Peter,  although  I  admit  it  has  once  or  twice 
occurred  to  me  to  do  so.  You  are  such  a  transparent 
fellow  that  I  guessed  what  you've  just  told  me  about 
her  relations  with  your  father  and  argued  that  to  expect 
generosity  from  her  would  be  a  waste  of  time.  So  much 
the  better  that  I  was  wrong!" 

Peter  was  satisfied,  and  Shaun  went  on,  "As  for  the 
Great  Company  I  think  you  are  well  out  of  it.  Your 
position  there  was  a  false  one.  Of  course  the  manner 
of  your  exit  was  not  the  happiest ;  but  I  doubt  whether 
Laurence  Man  will  make  much  use  of  it  with  the  Brem- 
ners.  I  think  you  are  foolish  to  blame  yourself  as  much 
as  you  do.  By  the  way,  were  you  in  a  state  of  uncer- 
tainty for  one  instant  whether  Cynthia  would  immedi- 
ately understand  and  never  dream  of  thinking  forgive- 
ness needful,  never  doubt  you,  never  blame  you,  only 
love  you  the  more  ? ' ' 

' '  No.    Though  I  knew  I  did  not  deserve  it. ' ' 

Shaun  regarded  him  thoughtfully,  with  his  head  on 
one  side.  "I  think  you  two  will  be  all  right,"  he  said 
after  a  little  consideration.  "I  won't  interfere  with 


TRANSFORMATION  261 

i 

this  mad  idea  of  cutting  and  running.  But,  Peter! 
Have  you  realised  what  a  shock  you've  given  the  girl? 
She'll  very  likely  get  your  letter  while  her  mother  is 
still  in  the  house!" 

"She  never  opens  letters  in  public,  Shaun.  I  don't 
know !  Now  that  I  think  of  it,  yes,  it  does  seem  rather 
colossal  cheek  to  ask  her  to  come  away  with  me  at  a 
moment 's  notice !  It  seemed  natural  enough  as  I  did 
it.  I  can't  imagine  what  I  was  thinking  of.  Dear  old 
Shaun,  have  I  been  a  brute  to  her?" 

"A  husband!" 

"I  thought  it  would  grow  worse  and  worse  for  her. 
They  would  never  let  her  hear  the  end  of  this  dismissal." 

"Don't  defend  yourself,  Peter.  There's  no  need,  to 
me." 

' '  But  ought  I  to  telephone  and  get  it  back  ?  I  won 't ! " 

"You  wouldn't?" 

"No.    I'm  done  with  crooked  ways." 

"Good-bye,"  said  Shaun,  with  the  gentlest  irony. 

Peter  seized  his  hand.  "Shaun!  Shaun!  I  didn't 
mean  that.  Please,  Shaun!" 

"That's  all  right,  Peter.  I  know  what  you  meant; 
and  I'm  glad,  provided  you  don't  run  straightforward- 
ness to  death.  You  meant  that  you  are  an  artist  now,  a 
business  man  no  longer — and  intend  to  behave  with  the 
freedom  and  frankness  natural  to  the  part." 

"Not  quite  that,  you  know,"  said  Peter,  puzzled. 
Shaun  laughed  irrepressibly.  The  hand  that  Peter  had 
released  he  placed  upon  his  shoulder,  in  one  of  his  rare 
caresses. 

"It's  better  for  you  to  be  open,  old  chap,"  he  said. 
"It  suits  your  genius.  Now  you  must  go  and  pack  and 
I  '11  accompany  you  and  take  every  drawing  you  Ve  got. 
There  11  be  a  reply  from  that  wife  of  yours,  perhaps ! ' ' 

"I  say!"  cried  Peter,  springing  to  his  feet. 

They  drove  to  Church  Street.  "Mine!"  said  Shaun, 
stepping  in  front  of  Peter  to  pay  the  driver.  Then  they 
tore  upstairs,  the  landlady  intercepting  them  on  the 
landing  to  say  that  Albert  had  not  waited  for  no  answer 
but  since  then  a  boy  in  buttons  had  come  and  she  had 


262  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

signed  for  the  letter  which  there  it  was  on  that  table. 
Peter  thanked  her  and  ran.  Shaun  lingered  to  satisfy 
his  curiosity  about  the  boy  in  buttons,  who  proved  to 
be  a  district  messenger.  He  suspected  aphasia,  but  could 
extract  no  more  from  the  landlady  than,  "My  'usbing 
always  calls  'em  that." 

"The  husband  must  be  a  character,"  he  remarked  on 
joining  Peter,  who  with  radiant  face  held  out  to  him  a 
tiny  sheet  of  notepaper.  "Want  me  to  read  it?  All 
right."  He  took,  and  read  in  Cynthia's  big  clear  hand- 
writing. Will  be  there.  C. 

"Very  much  to  the  point,  too!"  said  Shaun. 


Ill 

IT  was  safe  to  rely  on  Cynthia's  wits,  even  during  an 
elopement.  Accordingly,  when  Peter  was  reminded  of 
the  size  of  Waterloo  station  and  recalled  the  indefinite- 
ness  of  his  direction  '  under  the  clock, '  he  made  his  way 
to  the  one  on  the  departure  platform  for  main  line  trains, 
and  was  unperturbed  when  he  did  not  find  her  there. 
He  was  some  minutes  early,  and  she  might  be  late,  for 
she  would  not  have  begun  to  pack  until  Shaun's  telegram 
provided  her  with  an  excuse.  Shaun  had  written  and 
begged  her  to  deceive  the  servants;  she  might  say  she 
was  called  into  the  country  by  the  illness  of  a  chum,  he 
would  take  care  that  a  wire  reached  her  after  Sir  Everard 
had  left.  His  plan  was  to  visit  the  latter  at  the  Colonial 
Office  and  break  the  news  himself.  Peter,  stalking  to 
and  fro,  mentally  re-read  the  scrawl.  .  .  .  Kindly  re- 
member that  you  have  written  to  tell  me  of  your  intention 
without  giving  me  your  new  address.  I  shall  plead  guilty 
to  having  been  present  at  the  wedding  and  shall  say  that 
I  have  long  been  expecting  Peter's  dismissal,  in  view  of 
his  having  come  under  the  displeasure  of  L.  M.  (whom, 
your  father  has  never  liked).  In  any  case  he  would  have 
resigned  soon.  I  can  speak  as  to  his  future  as  a  jour- 
nalist. 

You  will  leave  a  note  for  your  father  and  mother,  I  ex- 
pect. Dear  girl,  let  it  be  firm  as  well  as  loving.  Do  not 
write  to  them  again  or  let  them  know  your  address  until 
I  give  the  word.  Nothing  would  do  more  harm  than  a 
premature  meeting  or  correspondence.  In  the  first  place 
I  have  to  prove  to  Sir  Everard  that  Peter's  dismissal  in- 
volved no  personal  disgrace,  to  do  which  I  may  approach 
Mr.  Mulholland  and  possibly  Mr.  Brown.  I  can  fore- 
stall L.  M.  who  dare  do  nothing  immediate,  but  I  must 

263 


264  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

not  force  this  point,  and  to  create  the  right  impression  in 
Sir  Everard's  mind  may  take  a  couple  of  weeks.  I  shall 
ask  Mulholland  to  give  me  authority  to  say  privately  to 
the  father  of  Middleton's  financee  that  Middleton's  im- 
mediate superior  spoke  strongly  in  his  favour  and  does 
not  consider  his  honour  touched  ~by  what  has  occurred, 
and  Brown  I  should  ask  to  say  frankly  whether  if  he 
were  a  private  employer  he  would  trust  and  employ 
Peter  Middleton.  They  won't  refuse,  I  know.  Keep 
this  for  reference.  Peter  should  have  it. 

Your  parents'  real  and  deep  affection  for  you  is  my 
strongest  card,  Cynthia,  and  I  believe  it  will  prevail, 
though  not  immediately.  My  next  strongest  is  their  nat- 
ural dislike  of  gossip  about  their  daughter.  My  greatest 
hope  is  that  Sir  Everard  will  consent  to  treat  the  secret 
marriage — to  the  world — indulgently,  as  a  romantic 
whim.  That  would  be  his  discreetest  attitude.  It  is  the 
one  to  which  I  wish  to  lead  him,  for  it  would  involve 
his  giving  financial  support!  Complete  friendliness 
and  forgiveness  on  his  part  would  puzzle  and  baffle 
the  gossips.  Nothing  else  would,  as  I  trust  he  will 
see. 

Meanwhile  lie  low  and  enjoy  your  honeymoon,  chil- 
dren. You  will  never  have  another.  Gather  your  roses! 

Give  my  regards  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Trerice  and  to  the 
wind  on  the  heath. 

So  the  letter  had  ended,  and  Peter  recalled  Shaun's 
distress  because  there  was  not  time  to  correct  its  prose. 
He  left  his  post  to  get  the  tickets  and  returned  at  the 
exact  quarter,  thinking,  ' '  Dear  old  Shaun  certainly  made 
the  best  of  things ! ' '  Cynthia  was  not  there.  Suddenly 
Peter's  heart  began  to  thump  in  his  breast  and  his  cool- 
ness entirely  deserted  him.  He  was  waiting  for  his 
wife !  It  was  Cynthia  who  had  not  come !  His  wife !  His 
wife!  His  wife!  Five  more  minutes  passed,  bringing 
him  a  cold  fear  lest  Sir  Everard  had  stayed  at  home. 
Would  she  arrive  or  not,  supposing  her  father  were  ill? 
Impossible  to  say.  The  minute-hand  seemed  to  be  mov- 
ing in  quick  jerks. 

Well,  they  could  not  have  caught  the  eleven  o'clock 


TRANSFORMATION  265 

express!  Peter  had  decided  upon  the  slower  train  at 
11.10,  because  it  might  be  emptier  and  would  not  be  as 
likely  to  contain  friends  of  the  Bremners.  He  did  not 
mind  an  hour  more  of  travelling  if  they  could  get  a  com- 
partment to  themselves.  It  was  five  minutes  past  eleven, 
and  he  sent  a  porter  to  secure  places,  keeping  the  luggage 
by  his  side.  The  battered  cabin  trunk  was  already 
labelled  and  the  bag  he  would  carry  in  his  hand.  There 
was  a  tall  girl  in  a  purple  coat  over  white  and  a  hat  with 
a  purple  bow  and  a  gleam  of  white,  walking  swiftly  be- 
hind a  porter's  barrow,  approaching  .  .  .  now  he  lost 
her  ...  it  must  be  Cynthia!  She  emerged  into  view 
again  nearer ;  she  was  looking  for  him.  She  smiled  with 
a  face  of  relief.  Peter  waved  and  ran  to  her.  They 
shook  hands,  and  she  said,  "Can  my  porter  take  your 
luggage,  or  is  it  in  ?"  She  wished  to  show  the  steadiness 
of  her  nerves ;  besides  Peter  was  so  distracted,  he  might 
have  done  or  left  undone  anything !  Very  youthful  and 
grave,  they  proceeded  side  by  side  in  pursuit  of  the  first 
.porter,  who,  having  scented  a  tip  of  magnitude,  had 
struck  a  bargain  with  the  guard,  who  alone  has  power 
to  succour  honeymoon  couples.  He  promptly  locked  them 
in,  and  from  that  moment  until  the  train  started  they 
were  kept  hotly  blushing. 

As  the  coach  drew  clear  of  the  long  platform  they 
glanced  timidly  at  each  other;  their  hands  had  already 
met.  Cynthia's  beautiful  eyes  did  not  drop  before  the 
ardour  of  his,  and  in  a  moment  she  was  in  his  arms,  glad 
to  rest  there,  glad  to  find  forgetfulness  in  the  strength  of 
his  clasp.  "I'm  so  sorry  to  have  let  you  in  for  this!" 
he  was  murmuring,  and  she  smiled  adorably  with  closed 
eyes  at  the  dear,  unconscious  humour  of  the  words. 
"Were  you  dreadfully  astonished,  my  brave,  brave 
Cynthia?" 

"Girls  aren't  so  easily  startled,"  she  whispered,  re- 
turning his  kisses.  "It's  sweet  to  be  here,  Peter!  You 
are  kind  to  me!" 

"I  was  a  brute  to  ask  you  to  leave  your  home." 

"No,  no.  A  wife  should  follow  her  husband.  It  was 
better  that  I  should  come.  I  felt  you  were  in  trouble 


266  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

and  needed  me  more  than  they  did.  Do  you  need  me, 
Peter?" 

Peter  intimated  that  he  did,  in  a  manner  that  carried 
conviction.  Then  he  drew  back  and  looked  at  her.  As 
Cynthia  gazed  her  own  eyes  filled  with  tears.  There  was 
no  need  for  him  to  speak.  She  murmured : 

"I  hadn't  guessed  how  much  you  wanted  me,  poor 
Peter." 

" I  've  been  lonely, ' '  he  said.  ' '  That's  over  now,  thank 

God.  Darling!  I "  Her  parted  lips  were  curved 

so  sweetly,  so  adorably  that  they  drew  his  gaze,  which 
travelled  over  her  lifted,  rounded  chin  down  her  white 
throat  to  the  lovely  base  of  it  left  visible  by  the  opening 
of  her  blouse.  He  gave  a  sigh  of  happiness,  and  bent 
to  her. 

The  train  rushed  swiftly  through  the  smiling  summer 
country  under  a  deep  blue  sky.  The  joyful  hours  sped 
with  swallow  flight  by  the  lovers,  darting  into  the  eter- 
nity of  the  past.  .  .  . 


IV 

THEY  lunched  in  the  stuffy,  swaying  saloon,  the  observed 
of  all  observers,  painfully  self-conscious  in  spite  of 
Cynthia's  dignified  composure  and  Peter's  stiff- 
shouldered  erectness.  The  girl  glanced  to  left  and  right, 
and  leaning  forward  told  him :  "I  put  it  on  in  the  cab 
— my  ring,  Peter.  It  likes  to  be  on. ' ' 

A  waiter  plunged  by  with  dishes  of  vegetables.  Peter 
said, ' '  It  ought  to  feel  jolly  honoured  at  being  round  your 
finger,  kid!  I'm  thinking  of  Shaun — I'm  afraid  your 
father  will  simply  bow  him  out!  There's  one  thing 
though,  Shaun  can  be  enormously  reasonable  and  calm. " 

' '  He  will  slip  in  some  useful  things  that  Dad  will  not 
forget.  Has  slipped  in!"  agreed  the  daughter.  "I 
wrote  the  shortest  note,  Peter !  Just  telling  what  I  had 
done,  asking  them  to  forgive  me,  and  saying  how  I  loved 
them.  They  can't  doubt  that  I  love  them,  can  they? 
Can  they?" 

"I  shouldn't  think  it  was  humanly  possible,"  said 
Peter  with  seriousness.  "They've  known  you  all  your 
life,  darling!" 

"I  began  to  speak  about  you  to  Mummy  before  she 
went,  and  she  cut  me  short,  and  in  the  evening  during 
dessert  when  the  servants  had  gone  I  tried  so  hard  to 
pluck  up  courage  to  speak  to  Dad.  Somehow  I  couldn't. 
He  was  too  unconscious!  And  none  of  us  have  ever 
dared  to  defy  him  openly.  I  was  afraid  of  breaking  down, 
and  there  was  the  habit  of  so  many  years  against  me ! " 

"Look  out,  that  chap  across  the  way  is  listening." 

The  waiter  whisked  plates  before  them,  and  the  con- 
versation closed. 

267 


THE  only  portion  of  the  journey  which  reminded  Peter 
of  the  visit  to  Tintagel  two  years  ago  was  the  arrival  at 
Camelford  station  and  long  line  of  wagonettes  outside. 
The  sun  was  shining  as  before,  the  fresh  Cornish  air  was 
blowing  in  gusts  of  fragrance,  but  there  were  no  figures 
waiting  at  the  exit.  He  had  looked  for  them  in  a  sudden 
rush  of  recollection;  the  stern-faced  man  in  grey  and 
Joyce  the  cool  study  in  browns  from  flowing  hair  to  slim 
legs — he  had  looked,  almost  expecting  to  see ! 

They  drove  inland  in  a  silence  which  was  partly  the 
result  of  fatigue,  in  part  of  a  new  shyness  that  had  come 
upon  them ;  but  when  they  reached  the  long,  sloping 
street  of  Camelford  questions  began  to  flow,  and  the 
driver  leaned  back  to  answer  them. 

"  'Tes  the  'King's  Arms,'  the  hotel  on  the  right — 
that's  a  very  good  house,  sir.  You'd  be  comfortable 
there !  The  building  in  the  market-place  is  the  Guild  'all ; 
see  the  golden  Camel  up  over  on  the  vane.  Now  we 
cross  the  river  Camel  over  this  bridge " 

' '  Why,  it 's  a  brook ! ' '  exclaimed  Cynthia. 

' '  Of  course  'tes,  miss,  but  we  call  it  a  river.  'Tes  filled 
with  trout,  and  salmon  peal  in  the  season.  We  don't 
reckon  to  poach  no  trout,  but  the  salmon  we  helps  our- 
selves to.  'Tes  the  finest  trout-stream  in  all  Cornwall, 
the  visitors  say." 

4 '  How  far  is  Roughtor  *  from  here  ? ' '  Peter  asked. 

"Four  mile  and  more.  I  can't  take  you  beyond 
Roughtor  Bridge,  sir ;  that 's  the  beginning  of  the  moor. 
I  expect  Trerice  will  meet  you  with  his  cart  for  the 
luggage.  He's  a  hind,  not  a  farmer — you  spoke  of 
Radgells  Farm  when  you  gave  the  direction ;  'tes  not  a 

*  Pronounced  Routor,  ou  as  in  '  out. ' 

268 


TRANSFORMATION  269 

farm  by  rights,  and  by  rights  he 's  got  no  license  to  carry 
luggage  or  passengers  in  his  cart,  but  I  wouldn't  say 
nothing  against  him.  He  knows  me  and  told  me  to 
look  out  for  you,  sir.  Radgells  es  between  Roughtor 
and  Brown  Willy.  There's  a  London  gentleman  stays 
there.  For  years  he's  been  cominV 

' '  He 's  a  friend  of  ours. ' ' 

"Is  that  so,  sir?  Well,  now!  Trerice  is  a  stranger 
too,  for  the  matter  of  that.  He  comes  from  down  Bodmin 
way,  and  he  hasn't  been  on  the  moor  more'n  ten  years. 
Here's  a  pretty  bit,  sir.  Tregoodwell,  they  call  this." 

It  was  a  beautiful  little  village  at  cross-roads ;  beyond  it 
was  a  turn  and  sharp  descent  into  a  valley  through  which 
flowed  another  stream,  a  shaded  brook  with  high  ferny 
banks.  They  crossed  and  walked  up  the  ascent  beyond, 
passing  a  cottage  with  its  fowl-run  completely  sur- 
rounded and  covered  in  by  thick  wire  netting. 

"They  hawks  is  a  terrible  nuisance  hereabouts,  and 
the  foxes  too, ' '  said  the  driver. 

' '  What  are  those  gates  on  the  right,  like  park  gates  ? ' ' 
asked  Cynthia.  "Is  there  a  park  there?" 

"Never  has  been  as  I  know  of,  miss.  They  call  the 
farm  Parkwalls.  Now  you'd  better  get  in,  and  thank 
you  for  walking.  'Tes  a  terrible  rough  road  for  sure. ' ' 

They  were  on  the  hill,  at  the  beginning  of  a  bare  roll- 
ing country  of  the  nature  of  reclaimed  moorland.  Be- 
hind, in  the  distance,  was  Camelford  dropping  into  its 
valley  in  the  evening  shadows.  The  air  was  clear,  the 
scene  both  wild  and  peaceful.  Now  the  carriage  clat- 
tered down  a  stony  slope  and  crossed  a  stream  with 
grassy  banks,  and  stickles,  and  pools  of  clear,  dark  water, 
and  again  they  dismounted  and  walked  up  a  steep  rise. 

' '  Can  we  see  the  moor  and  Roughtor  from  up  above  ? ' ' 
asked  Cynthia  eagerly  of  the  driver. 

"Yes,  miss,"  he  said.  "Those  crags  you've  been 
catching  sight  of  all  along  over  the  hills,  they  belong 
to  be  on  Roughtor,  and  we're  close  to  the  edge  of  the 
moor  now." 

' '  Come  on, ' '  she  cried  to  Peter,  and  off  they  ran  ahead 
up  the  road.  Panting,  they  arrived  on  the  brow  of  the 


270  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

hill  and  stood  before  a  long  declivity  leading  to  a  stream 
crossed  by  a  small,  open  bridge,  round  which  splendid 
cattle  were  watering  and  moorland  ponies  were  lingering 
with  their  foals.  On  the  other  side  began  the  moor  and 
rose  to  a  ridge,  dusky  and  craggy  a  mile  away  against 
the  evening  sky,  with  three  summits;  Showery  Tor  on 
the  left  which  could  be  approached  by  a  gradual  slope ; 
the  steeper  Little  Roughtor  with  strangely-balanced 
rocks;  and  the  great  granite-piled  Roughtor,  bold  as  a 
fortress,  forming  the  end  of  the  crest,  which  here 
dropped  precipitously  to  the  moor.  The  flanks  of 
Roughtor  were  strewn  with  rocks.  It  lay  bare  but  not 
bleak,  dominating  the  smaller,  grass-topped  hills  and 
downs  that  swept  away  into  the  distance  on  either  hand, 
and  the  last  sunlight  caressed  its  heaped-up  summit, 
gilding  it  like  the  crown  on  the  head  of  a  lion  couchant 
which  brooded  immemorially  over  the  open  moor. 

"Oh,  Roughtor,  I  love  you!"  called  out  Cynthia. 

The  wind  drifted  against  their  cheeks  with  a  soft 
chilliness  that  told  of  coming  night.  The  mysterious 
shadows  lengthened.  A  lapwing  cried  plaintively,  to 
lure  them  from  the  neighbourhood  of  its  nest.  From 
far  away  came  the  beautiful  whistling  note  of  a  curlew. 
Now  the  strange  loveliness  of  the  moor  altered  swiftly 
as  they  watched ;  and  a  gleam  of  pink,  a  reflection  from 
the  western  sky,  appeared  above  the  ridge,  spreading 
upon  a  feathery  cloud  which  was  trailing  from  Showery 
Tor.  Something  moving  drew  down  their  gaze,  and  there 
between  Roughtor  and  the  next  rounded  hill  they  saw  a 
speck  that  was  a  horse  and  cart.  It  approached,  becom- 
ing distinct,  and  the  driver  spoke  to  them  from  behind : 

"Better  get  in,  sir.    I  see  Trerice  yonder." 

' '  Thank  you  for  letting  us  wait, ' '  said  Cynthia.  She 
had  no  idea  how  long  they  had  stood  there  gazing. 

"  'Tes  worth  looking  at,  miss.  I  often  come  out  of 
a  Sunday  to  sit  here  and  smoke  my  pipe." 

"Are  they  Hut  Circles, — those  circles  of  stone  just 
visible  there  on  the  moor?"  asked  Peter,  as  they  clat- 
tered down  the  hill. 

"That's  what  they  call  'em,  sir,  and  when  you've  seen 


TRANSFORMATION  271 

one  of  the  wish*  things  you've  seen  the  lot;  that's  my 
opinion.  They'm  old  as  the  hills  and  'tain't  more  than 
guessing  when  a  man  says  what  was  the  use  of  them. 
See  that  monument  down  under — by  the  bridge,  miss, — 
that  monument  is  more  interesting-like.  A  murdered 
woman  is  buried  there." 

Cynthia  uttered  an  exclamation,  and  the  driver 
touched  his  hat.  "Beg  pardon,  miss,  and  you  new- 
married,  too !  'Twas  thoughtless  of  me  to  talk  of  mur- 
ders. But  you  see  I  remember  the  old  people  speakin' 
of  it  and  that  makes  a  difference.  It  seems  brave  an' 
sad  to  me,  that  monument  does.  Beg  pardon,  sir.  I 
ought  to  'a  remembered  gentlefolks  don't  care  to  hear 
of  murders.  I  've  bached  for  myself  f  all  these  years, 
and  I  haven't  any  sense.  Here  we  are  at  Roughtor 
Bridge.  I  can't  go  no  further.  We  must  wait  till 
Trerice  comes  up. ' ' 

"The  foals  are  so  pretty,"  said  Cynthia.  "Look, 
Peter!" 

Soon  the  little  cart  drove  up  and  Mr.  Trerice  de- 
scended. He  was  a  small,  dark  man  with  a  ragged  black 
moustache  and  the  kindly,  mild  and  reserved  expression 
that  is  characteristically  Cornish.  "Pleased  to  meet  you, 
sir,  pleased  to  meet  you,  ma  'am, ' '  he  said  gently,  looking 
up  with  very  bright  blue  eyes  which  were  secret  and 
somewhat  timid  until  he  smiled  and  then  became  sudden- 
ly frank  and  clear.  ' '  Any  friends  of  Mr.  James  are  wel- 
come. ' '  The  transfer  of  luggage  was  soon  accomplished, 
after  which  their  host  looked  confused.  "Ef  you  don't 
mind  following  the  cart  for  a  couple  of  miles,  sir,  the 
lady  could  drive,  and  I  '11  walk  with  the  horse — 

"Let  me  walk,  Peter,"  said  Cynthia.  "Mr.  Trerice, 
please  go  on  and  we'll  keep  you  in  sight.  We  can't  lose 
our  way  then." 

"Thank  you,  ma'am,"  said  Trerice,  looking  relieved. 
"  'Tes  jolty  in  this  cart,  and  the  moor's  wonderful  dry 
underfoot.  'Tes  scarcely  soft  anywhere  now.  We  go 
under  Roughtor,  between  that  and  Louden  Hill  and  bear 

*  Weird,  strange. 

t  Kept  house  by  myself,  been  a  bachelor. 


272  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

to  the  left  then,  for  Brown  Willy  lies  at  the  back  of 
Roughtor,  and  Radgells  es  between  the  two.  'Tes  only 
a  step." 

"It's  a  matter  of  two  mile!"  commented  the  driver, 
who  had  turned  the  carriage  and  was  waiting  interestedly 
to  see  them  start. 

"That's  only  a  step!"  cried  Cynthia. 

"Bravo,  miss,  and  a  happy  life  to  'ee!  Good  night, 
sir!" 

Both  vehicles  started,  and  the  last  link  with  London 
seemed  broken.  Henceforward  they  moved  as  new 
people  in  a  magic  land  of  purity  and  distances,  where 
was  pale  sunlight  and  long  purple  shadows  drifting  and 
springy  turf  underfoot  and  a  scented  wind  musical  in 
their  ears;  where  the  strength  of  their  youth  was 
doubled  and  they  felt  as  though  they  could  walk  for  ever 
in  a  rapture  of  exhilaration  and  happy  relief.  They 
looked  at  each  other  and  smiled.  They  laughed  aloud, 
with  clasped  hands  swinging,  and  were  suddenly  silent, 
conscious  of  the  warmth  of  palm  in  palm.  Their  hands 
clung  like  friends,  their  hands  clung  like  lovers.  Great 
Roughtor  shook  his  granite  mane  against  the  sky.  He 
blessed  them,  saying,  ' '  Mine  is  the  glory  of  the  ages  that 
are  past;  in  the  beating  of  your  pulses,  O  mortals,  is 
the  promise  of  aeons  yet  to  come !  I,  who  am  immortal 
Death,  salute  Life.  Ye  shall  love  me,  and  I  will  make 
you  wise.  For  Love  that  fears  not  is  free  as  Death, 
and  we  are  equals,  ye  and  I!" 

As  they  came  close  beneath  his  grandeur  they  trembled 
and  their  hands  fell  apart.  ' '  He 's  like  a  sphinx, ' '  said 
Cynthia,  her  sweet  voice  hushed,  ' '  but  still  he 's  friendly. 
We  're  going  to  be  so  happy  on  the  moor,  Peter ! ' ' 

Then  Trerice  looked  back,  pointing  to  a  short  cut, 
and  presently  the  roof  of  Radgells  appeared  below  them ; 
beyond,  began  the  slopes  of  Brown  Willy.  It  was 
shadowy  here  among  the  hills,  but  behind  them  in  the  sky 
glowed  red  above  Louden,  and  the  craggy  precipitous 
head  of  Roughtor  was  dark  against  red  sky.  Above  Brown 
Willy 's  cairn  sparkled  a  single  star.  The  moor  was  quiet. 

A  stony  track  led  downward  to  the  open  door  of  the 


TRANSFORMATION  273 

house,  from  which  came  a  beam  of  light.  They  saw  an 
outside  staircase  leading  to  a  loft,  a  porch  rose-covered, 
a  big  window  beside  it  at  which  a  woman's  figure  ap- 
peared carrying  a  lamp ;  she  put  it  down  and  looked  out 
as  Trerice  staggered  round  the  side  of  the  building,  bent 
beneath  one  of  Cynthia's  trunks. 

"Hallo,  Mother,"  he  called.  "They'm  coming!" 
The  woman  vanished  from  the  window  and  met  Trerice 
entering.  He  had  not  perceived  Peter  and  Cynthia, 
but  Mrs.  Trerice  did.  "Get  on  in  with  'ee,  Will!"  she 
said,  making  way.  He  stumbled  forward  and  disappeared. 
Mrs.  Trerice  slipped  back  and  greeted  the  travellers  upon 
the  threshold  with  a  shy,  "Good  evening";  she  seemed 
astonished  by  Cynthia's  beauty.  Then  she  led  them  in. 
She  was  a  very  broad-shouldered  woman  with  a  thin 
face  and  large,  dark  eyes,  and  brown  hair  combed  back. 
Her  expression  was  intelligent  and  kind;  intensely  self- 
reliant  without  the  smallest  trace  of  conceit. 

She  wished  to  take  them  through  the  kitchen  into  the 
parlour  while  the  luggage  was  being  carried  upstairs, 
but  Peter  insisted  on  helping  Mr.  Trerice,  and  Cynthia 
begged  to  be  allowed  to  stay  where  she  was.  "If  you 
don't  mind!"  said  Mrs.  Trerice,  visibly  pleased. 
Cynthia  addressed  a  little  girl  of  nine  or  ten  who  was 
playing  by  the  hearth.  She  was  awed  by  the  clothes 
of  the  London  lady  and  would  not  answer.  "She 
doesn't  see  many  strangers  out  here  on  the  moor,"  her 
mother  apologised  for  her.  "Speak  up,  Gwenneth! 
Tell  the  lady  the  kittens'  names.  We  call  them  'Blue' 
and  'Smoke,'  miss.  Mr.  James  gave  us  the  mother- 
cat.  He  brought  her  all  the  way  from  London.  It's 
odd  .  .  .  Gwenneth  will  chatter  away  to  Mr.  James. '" 
"She  will  to  me  in  a  day  or  two,"  promised  Cynthia. 

Mrs.  Trerice,  busy  at  the  stove,  had  still  found  time 
for  many  an  anxious  glance  at  Cynthia's  attire,  the 
simplicity  of  which  did  not  by  any  means  conceal  its 
expensiveness,  and  now  she  said:  "I  do  hope  you'll  be 
comfortable  here.  I'm  afraid  you'll  find  it  very  rough 
after  what  you've  been  used  to,  miss."  Cynthia  noted 
the  pretty  singsong  lilt  of  her  voice. 


274  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

"I'm  sure  I  shall  be  comfortable!"  she  said  quickly, 
and  indeed  the  clean  lime-washed  walls  and  stone  floor, 
the  grandfather  clock,  the  scrubbed  table  and  painted 
round-backed  wooden  chairs,  the  pots  simmering 
pleasantly  on  the  stove,  the  winding  staircase  up  which 
Peter  had  just  vanished  with  a  brown  leather  bag,  the 
geraniums  in  the  window  and  the  great  silence  outside 
gave  the  cheerful  interior  an  air  of  peace  and  home. 
Her  impulsiveness  lent  her  the  last  charm  necessary  to 
captivate  the  Cornishwoman,  already  predisposed  to 
like  the  friend  of  ' Mr.  James. '  "I  wish  you  happiness, ' ' 
she  said  with  her  face  turned  away  as  she  stood  at 
the  fire.  "And  I  ought  not  to  be  calling  you  'miss.' 
We'll  do  our  best  for  you  here." 

' '  Thank  you, ' '  said  Cynthia. 

"You'm  walcome!"  And  the  two  women  were 
friends. 

The  moment  of  going  up  to  wash  hands  was  embarrass- 
ing to  Cynthia,  for  the  small  interval  of  settling-down 
in  the  kitchen  had  made  Peter  seem  suddenly  far  away. 
She  felt  shy  as  she  went  up  the  winding,  narrow  stair- 
case. Also  she  hated  the  idea  of  appearing  at  a  disadvan- 
tage. Sponging  one 's  face  was  such  a  prosaic  thing  after 
being  admitted  to  the  friendship  of  Roughtor,  the  Spirit 
of  the  Moor.  Oh,  there  were  many  reasons !  She  would 
not  admit  that  she  was  in  the  least  afraid  of  entering 
their  common  room;  but  should  it  not  be  a  place  apart 
and  holy?  She  longed  petulantly  for  a  private  suite 
and  her  own  maid,  then  naming  herself  a  cowardly  fool 
moved  into  their  bedroom  with  dragging  footsteps.  He 
had  called  to  her  from  within,  whence  came  the  sound 
of  pouring  water.  With  just  a  glance  at  her  drooping 
flower  countenance,  her  lowered  eyes,  he  moved  past 
her  and  went  out.  The  instant  he  was  gone  she  became 
ashamed  and  called,  "Peter,"  impulsively.  He  heard 
and  returned.  Then  she  held  out  her  arms. 

In  the  parlour  they  found  cream  and  many  cakes, 
home-made  bread,  both  white  and  saffron,  ham  and 
eggs,  and  tea;  and  ate  hungrily.  Her  hair  looked 
fairer  than  usual  in  the  lamplight.  Her  bare  throat 


TRANSFORMATION  275 

was  very  white.  He  remembered  how  he  had  kissed  it 
in  the  train.  Her  eyes  were  still  shy  and  wild.  She 
was  a  lovely  girl;  anyone  would  have  said  she  was  a 
lovely  girl,  but  to  him  she  was  precious  above  words, 
above  thoughts.  He  kissed  her  finger  with  the  ring  on 
it,  slipping  instinctively  to  his  knees  by  her  chair  and 
then  as  she  uttered  a  sweet,  little  startled  cry  he  buried 
his  face  upon  her  knees,  sobbed  out  that  he  was  unworthy 
and  would  make  her  unhappy,  he  was  so  selfish.  He 
would  try  not  to  be  a  beast  to  her,  try  to  be  kind,  she 
had  given  up  so  much,  he  did  not  deserve  her,  did  not 
know  why  she  loved  him.  "Oh,  Peter,"  she  said,  strok- 
ing his  hair  gently,  "I  can't  think  why  you  love  me!" 
She  comforted  him,  and  all  at  once  they  were  merry. 
When  the  meal  was  over  they  started  to  clear  away, 
but  Mrs.  Trerice  came  in  and  would  not  let  them  touch 
a  thing.  She  brought  them  'Blue'  and  'Smoke'  to  play 
with  and  told  them  how  their  sheets  were  bleached  in 
the  brightest  sunshine  and  how  Mr.  James  had  given 
her  most  of  the  furniture  of  this  room, — he  did  his  kind- 
nesses in  such  a  way  you  couldn't  say  no. 

Then  she  left  them  and  Cynthia  went  upstairs  to 
unpack.  Peter  had  already  thrown  out  the  things  he 
needed;  which  was  a  pity,  he  felt  now,  for  he  would 
have  liked  to  work  side  by  side  with  her.  He  would 
have  boldly  followed  her,  but  somehow  he  could  not  stir. 
His  feet  seemed  weighted  with  lead.  He  was  over- 
whelmed by  the  most  complete  shyness.  She  was  like  a 
mystery,  a  spirit  moving  overhead.  The  plancheon — the 
plank  ceiling — communicated  her  presence  as  she  stirred, 
light-foot.  The  soft  noises  and  whispering  sounds  fright- 
ened him.  She  was  no  longer  merely  beautiful  in  his 
thoughts,  she  was  All-Beauty,  no  longer  a  girl,  but  the 
Secret  of  Maidenhood,  no  longer  a  woman,  but  the  Soul 
of  Womanliness,  she  was  God's  messenger  to  him — and 
a  human,  passionate  lover  like  himself.  He  murmured 
her  name,  "Cynthia!"  It  was  as  though  she  had  sud- 
denly outgrown  it,  she  was  too  great  and  wondrous  to 
be  named  any  more. 

And  then  she  came  down  and  sat  opposite  him  with  a 


276  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

book,  and  there  was  a  silence  between  them,  and  they 
peeped  at  one  another  with  hot  cheeks  while  it  seemed 
to  each  that  the  other's  eyes  shone  and  were  very  bril- 
liant and  that  his  own  eyes  on  the  contrary  were  dim. 
They  were  tingling  with  excitement.  After  a  while  she 
rose  to  her  feet  with  a  dignity  which  concealed  her 
nervous  trembling,  and  he  rose  too  and  lighted  the 
candle  that  Mrs.  Trerice  had  put  ready,  and  gave  it  her. 
She  took  it  in  her  left  hand  and  held  out  her  right  in  a 
frank  gesture.  Gravely  they  clasped  hands  and  met  each 
other's  gaze.  It  was  a  sacrament  of  friendship — which 
altered  after  a  second  to  the  challenge  of  youth,  of  sex. 
Their  eyes  dropped,  their  hands  dropped,  and  she  turned 
away,  saying  strangely,  "I  do  love  you,  Peter,  after 
all, ' '  and  moved  to  the  door,  a  young,  girlish  figure,  and 
went  out.  Through  the  open  door  he  could  see  the  flame 
flickering  with  the  trembling  of  her  hand,  and  her  voice 
said, ' '  Good  night, ' '  steadily  to  the  inmates  of  the  kitchen 
who  chorussed  a  reply,  and  then  she  passed  up  the  stairs 
and  out  of  sight. 

The  beating  of  Peter's  heart  would  not  let  him  listen 
for  the  ceasing  of  the  dim  sounds  overhead.  The  Tre- 
rices  went  up.  A  night-wind  murmured  about  the  win- 
dows. He  had  an  odd  fancy  that  he  heard  Roughtor 
stir  outside,  rising  to  his  feet  in  order  to  pace  the  moor, 
a  watchful  friendly  presence,  the  Past  guarding  the 
Future.  The  thought  of  the  future  caused  Peter  to 
shake  from  head  to  foot.  He  prayed  in  an  agony  of 
humility,  "Make  me  worthy,  0  God!"  In  a  fever  of 
happiness  he  thanked  God  for  giving  him  Cynthia. 

Yes,  there  was  silence  above.  With  a  steady  hand  and 
breath  he  extinguished  the  lamp.  He  felt  his  way  out  of 
the  room,  Youth  singing  in  his  heart.  Swiftly  he  ascended 
the  stairs.  He  saw  light  through  the  keyhole,  like  a  faint 
melodious  whisper  of  his  name,  bidding  him  enter.  For 
a  moment  he  stood  still,  awed  on  the  threshold  of  the  new 
life,  then  clutched  at  the  handle  of  the  door  with  eager 
fingers,  knowing  that  he  loved  her,  that  she  was  near.  . .  . 

The  door  opened ;  and  closed  behind  him. 


VI 

THEIR  window,  wide  open,  looked  upon  the  east,  but  the 
early  sunshine  did  not  awaken  them,  nor  did  the  fresh 
wind  of  the  morning,  stirring  the  coverlet  and  the  soft 
strands  of  Cynthia's  tumbled  hair.  They  slept  like  two 
children,  his  head  nursed  against  her  white  breast,  his 
arm  flung  about  her;  each  clasped  his  treasure,  smiling 
peacefully.  The  clatter  of  milk-buckets  aroused  them 
and  drew  them  to  the  window.  "Let's  only  be  happy 
to-day ! ' '  said  Cynthia.  ' '  There 's  nowhere  but  here  and 
no  one  but  us  in  the  whole,  wide  world."  She  put  up 
her  lips  innocently  to  be  kissed,  as  they  leaned  out,  el- 
bows on  the  sill,  and  nestled  into  his  embrace  with  a 
little  sigh  of  happiness.  "I  love  you,  dear  Peter,"  she 
said.  Mrs.  Trerice  appeared  below  and  they  slipped 
back  into  the  shadow  of  the  room.  Out  of  his  arms  she 
flew  to  the  washstand  and  poured  out  water.  "Let's  get 
up  quickly  and  be  fearfully  athletic!"  she  cried. 
"Please,  Peter,  set  up  the  screen  for  me.  I  feel  as 
though  I  could  run  twice  round  the  world!" 

' '  We  're  too  late  to  see  the  sunrise  from  Brown  Willy, ' ' 
said  Peter. 

"Another  morning  we  will.  Who'll  be  first  on  the 
topmost  top  of  Roughtor?  I,  Cynthia,  will  be.  We'll 
climb  the  steepest  face." 

"The  end  of  the  ridge  is  a  precipice,  darling.  We 
can't  manage  that." 

"I  could  with  ropes.  I'm  a  mountaineer — (splash), — 
a  horrid  boastful  pig  of  a  mountaineer — (loud  splash- 
ing). But  we'll  go  up  the  Camelford  side.  That's 
steeper  and  jollier  than  this  side,  isn't  it?" 

"Yes.  This  is  bare  and  stony  and  the  other  is  grown 
with  furze  and  bushes,  with  big  blocks  of  granite  tum- 
bled about.  Right  as  usual,  Cyn." 

277 


278  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

"Don't  call  me  Cyn,  call  me  Star,  Peter.  No,  you 
mustn  't  look  round  yet.  I  like  to  be  called  Star  because 
it  makes  me  feel  vain." 

"You'd  better  not  talk  if  you  want  me  not  to  look 
round,"  said  Peter  reprovingly.  Cynthia  laughed. 

When  they  came  down  for  breakfast  Mrs.  Trerice 
addressed  them  as  "My  dear  souls"  in  her  surprise. 
' '  Mr.  James  was  never  afoot  so  early  as  this, ' '  she  said. 
She  could  not  take  her  eyes  off  Cynthia;  there  was  a 
tenderness,  a  touching  softness  and  radiance  about  the 
girl's  beauty  and  grace  which  melted  the  heart.  So 
while  the  kettle  was  boiling  she  led  them  into  the  flower 
garden  at  the  back  of  the  house,  where  fuchsias  and 
wallflowers  bloomed,  and  rose  bushes  scrambled  about 
the  walls,  laden  with  great  pink  blossoms ;  and  she  dis- 
coursed as  freely  as  she  would  have  to  her  favourite,  Mr. 
James.  When  she  had  come  here  fourteen  years  ago  this 
garden  was  all  choked  with  nettles,  which  she  and  her 
husband  had  killed  by  pouring  on  them  pailfuls  of  boil- 
ing water.  Turrible  thick  they  were.  And  the  adders 
used  to  come  into  the  parlour  through  a  hole  in  the  wall, 
and  get  into  the  kitchen  at  night  and  steal  food.  They 
had  killed  twelve  or  fifteen  adders  while  they  were 
cleansing  the  house,  and  once  she  had  met  one  wriggling 
downstairs.  "In  another  moment  he  was  dead  as  a 
dish ! ' '  She  had  not  seen  an  adder  for  a  month  or  two 
now,  but  there  were  plenty  up  over  in  the  clitter  below 
Brown  Willy,  adders  and  foxes  and  badgers — and  town- 
crows  too,  turrible  nuisance  among  the  fowls,  my  dear — 
turrible ! 

"What's  a  clitter,  please,  Mrs.  Trerice?"  asked 
Cynthia.  "Is  it  that  long,  sloping  down,  brackeny 
bit?" 

"Yes,  all  that  bracken  grows  over  piled-up  rocks,  and 
there  are  deep  holes  there.  That's  a  clitter;  and  that's 
where  the  foxes  and  adders  live.  The  hunt's  a  pretty 
sight  streamin'  over  Brown  Willy.  I  like  to  come  out 
and  watch  'em,  but  they  don't  pay  more'n  a  shillun  a 
head  for  the  fowls  the  foxes  kill,  and  'tesn  't  enough.  We 
lose  heavy  by  the  foxes  and  towncrows." 


TRANSFORMATION  279 

"Are  they  what  we  should  call  carrion-crows?"  asked 
Peter. 

' '  I  don 't  know,  sir.  I  suppose  they  are.  We  call  'era 
towncrows  because  they're  such  thieves.  Now  I'll  set 
your  breakfast  ready  and  put  out  the  pasties  and  cakes 
for  you  to  take  for  your  lunch,  ef  you're  sure  you  won't 
come  back  to  the  house.  'Tesn  't  no  trouble  to  me,  either 
way. ' ' 

"Are  you  afraid  of  snakes,  dear?"  asked  Peter,  confi- 
dentially, as  he  and  Cynthia  strolled  after  Mrs.  Trerice. 

"Not  a  bit.    But  I  am  afraid  of  mice." 

He  called,  "Are  there  any  mice  here,  Mrs.  Trerice?" 

She  stopped  in  surprise.  "Oh  no,  sir.  The  adders 
see  to  that." 

' '  Well,  one  of  us  is  happy, ' '  remarked  Peter.  ' '  I  am 
afraid  of  snakes.  My  wife — (how  splendid  it  sounded !) 
— hates  mice.  What  are  you  afraid  of?" 

Mrs.  Trerice  considered.  "  'Tes  a  lonely  place  this,  a 
bra'  lonely  spot,  and  I  tell  'ee  what  I'm  afraid  of.  I'm 
mortal  afraid  of  scalding  myself,  for  what  I  'd  do  then  I 
can 't  tell ! ' '  She  hurried  on  into  the  kitchen. 

At  the  end  of  breakfast  Peter  said  that  if  their  landlady 
had  provided  enough  for  six,  anyhow  they  had  eaten 
enough  for  four.  "You  aren't  very  shocked  at  me  for 
being  greedy?"  inquired  Cynthia.  "Are  you?"  He 
reassured  her,  and  she  withdrew  to  make  herself  ready 
for  going  out.  Cynthia  was  conscious  of  an  extraordinary 
sense  of  freedom  since  yesterday,  a  new  breadth  of  happi- 
ness, a  feeling  of  naturalness.  She  did  not  appear  to 
herself  to  have  changed  suddenly  from  a  girl  into  a 
woman.  She  felt  herself  if  possible  more  girlish  than  ever, 
but  a  natural  person  instead  of  a  conventionally  civilised 
one.  Her  love  was  right;  it  had  completed  her.  She 
came  back  singing  with  a  careless  joy,  head  bare,  all  in 
white  down  to  stockings  and  shoes,  the  sleeves  of  her 
blouse  rolled  up  to  her  shoulders,  a  walking-stick  in  her 
hand,  a  bunch  of  wallflowers  at  her  breast.  She  was  a 
gay,  athletic  figure  of  Spring,  as  unlike  the  conventional 
Rosemary  of  the  drawing-room  as  could  be  imagined. 

"I  say!"  exclaimed  Peter.     "You  darling!" 


280  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

"What's  the  matter?"  asked  Cynthia  guilelessly — 
but  she  blushed. 

"You!  You're  just  perfect  for  the  moor.  It's  so 
jolly  to  see  your  arms.  They  're  as  good  as  any  statue 's 
— Shaun  says  so,  too." 

' '  I  don 't  care  what  Shaun  says ! ' '  said  Cynthia,  heart- 
lessly. "Thank  you  for  liking  them,  Peter.  I  want  to 
get  them  sun-browned." 

"Sun-browned!" 

"Yes.  They  are  too  white."  Peter  would  have  ap- 
proved if  she  had  wanted  to  have  them  black.  He  did 
not  understand,  but  he  said  cheerfully  yes.  His  young 
wife  should  have  her  wish. 

Then  they  went  side  by  side  through  the  rose-covered 
porch,  their  elbows  touching  with  the  blissfullest  thrill  of 
contact,  and  fell  apart  when  they  saw  Mr.  Trerice  ap- 
proaching on  a  pony.  He  had  led  the  beast  with  Gwen- 
neth  on  its  back  as  far  as  the  edge  of  the  moor,  and  now 
was  riding  home.  They  learnt  that  the  little  girl  had 
five  miles  to  go  to  attend  school  at  St.  Breward's,  and 
the  same  distance  to  return  by  herself  every  evening; 
if  she  got  wet  on  the  way  out  schoolmaster  would  send 
her  home  to  once,  but  of  course  she  did  not  go  in  the 
roughest  weather.  "There's  no  fear  of  rain  to-day. 
They  big,  white  clouds  mean  nothing  and  the  king- 
crowners  are  abroad." 

When  Trerice  had  passed  on,  Peter  asked,  "What  are 
kingcrowners  ? ' ' 

' '  Red  Admiral  or  Peacock  butterflies. ' ' 

"Why,  I  thought  they  were  probably  eagles!" 

She  laughed  at  him  very  sweetly,  and  after  that  they 
walked  for  a  while  hand  in  hand.  Close  to  the  house 
they  passed  a  stone  circle,  a  ring  of  upright  slabs  a 
couple  of  feet  in  height  marking  the  position  of  some- 
thing, but  he  would  be  a  bold  man  who  was  certain  what. 
Thus,  Peter ;  and  then  they  proceeded  along  the  way  they 
had  come  last  night,  in  order  to  pass  under  Roughtor  and 
attack  him  from  the  wilder  Camelford  side.  Wheatears 
and  meadow-pipits  scolded  them  daintily  forward,  pur- 
suing them  from  nest  to  nest. 


TRANSFORMATION  281 

Now  they  were  beneath  the  precipitous  head  of  the  lion 
of  the  moor,  at  the  edge  of  the  clitter  of  stones  and 
bracken  which  outstretching  formed  his  paws.  They 
skirted  the  clitter  and  rounded  the  head  to  where  grass 
and  heather  gave  access  to  a  stiff  slope,  strown  with 
granite  blocks  amongst  which  grew  whortle  bushes  and 
clumps  of  bracken,  leading  up  to  the  summit  where  the 
granite  outcrop  was  bare  and  exposed  and  enormous 
rocks  were  piled  one  upon  the  other  smooth  and  dusky 
and  weatherworn,  their  lower  masses  overgrown  with 
lichen,  the  upper  surfaces  wind-swept  and  naked.  The 
top  of  Roughtor  looked  some  five  hundred  feet  above  the 
level  of  the  moor  where  they  stood,  and  to  race  up  it 
called  for  young  breath  and  young,  strong  limbs. 

Peter  and  Cynthia  were  discussing  where  the  race 
should  end.  "I  don't  know  that  we  can  climb  that  sort 
of  cairn  upon  the  very  top,"  said  Peter,  fearing  for 
Cynthia.  "Let's  make  it  that  the  first  who  sees  over  to 
the  other  side  wins." 

Cynthia,  confident  of  her  climbing,  was  afraid  for 
Peter.  "The  first  to  see  Brown  Willy,"  she  agreed. 
' '  Don 't  drop  off  your  knapsack,  Boy ! ' ' 

' '  There,  you  are  stooping  like  a  sprinter ! ' '  said  Peter. 
"We're  not  off  yet.  You  must  have  a  start,  Girl.  Go 
on  ahead  twenty  yards." 

"I'm  sure  I've  gone  more  than  twenty  yards,"  cried 
Cynthia  indignantly,  turning  round.  "Why  didn't  you 
stop  me,  Peter?" 

"I  was  watching  you,  darling.  You  are  so  sweet, 
Cynthia !  Now  ready.  Off ! " 

Cynthia  found  herself  running.  She  did  not  remember 
starting,  but  she  was  running  as  she  had  never  run  before. 
Now  came  the  rise — she  had  barely  time  to  choose  her 
course,  but  pressed  on  up  as  best  she  could,  round  rocks, 
over  more  rocks,  now  scrambling  on  hands  and  knees, 
now  creeping  sideways,  now  swinging  herself  up  by  the 
help  of  bushes,  going  as  straight  as  she  could.  "I've 
never  been  so  happy, "  she  thought,  rushing  a  steep  patch 
of  moss  and  turf  over  which  a  less  agile  young  animal 
would  have  had  to  crawl.  A  great  ram  blundered  to  his 


282  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

feet,  startling  her,  and  crashed  away  through  bracken. 
The  girl  with  a  little  cry  raced  on.  Her  mind  cleared,  and 
a  recollection  flew  across  its  surface  like  sunshine  over 
water.  How  often  she  had  wondered  whether  she  could 
abandon  her  individuality  and  just  be  Peter's — which 
was  precisely  what  was  giving  her  happiness  now !  She 
loved  him !  She  loved  him !  Flying  forward  with  beat- 
ing heart  to  the  crest  of  the  rise,  glorying  in  her  youthful 
strength  and  deep-lunged  fleetness,  she  could  still  rejoice 
to  hear  his  footsteps  close  ...  at  her  side  ...  to  see 
him  win  by  only  a  yard.  And  she  had  breath  enough  left 
to  cry  out,  flinging  herself  down,  "Oh,  the  valley  and 
Brown  Willy!  Look  at  the  little  stream  in  the  valley, 
running  below  Radgells!  I'm  glad  you  won,  Peter." 

Peter  once  started  on  an  idea  was  not  to  be  diverted. 
"Up  on  that  pile  of  rocks  is  the  topmost  top,"  he  said. 
"I  wonder  how  many  tons  each  of  them  weighs!  I 
wonder  whether  it's  wind  or  water  that  wears  them 
so  smooth.  They're  granite,  you  know,  Starry  One. 
Fifteen  feet,  twenty  feet  to  go  and  six  footholds.  I  '11  go 
first.  Mind,  you  must  not  come  unless  I  find  it  easy." 

The  slabs  thinned  away  to  narrow  edges  affording  a 
foothold,  but  rose  steeply  one  above  the  other.  Peter 
blundered  and  slid  down.  The  other  faces  were  abrupt, 
unapproachable;  only  this  side  turned  towards  Brown 
Willy  was  possible  of  conquest. 

Cynthia  had  been  watching  from  the  ground.  She 
stooped  and  drew  off  shoes  and  stockings.  Her  skirts 
were  short  and  gave  her  free  action  of  the  limbs.  "Let 
me  try,"  she  said.  "You  need  rubber  shoes,  Peter. 
Your  boots  are  too  slippery." 

"You've  got  rubbers,  haven't  you,  kid?"  said  Peter, 
without  looking  round :  still  dogged. 

"Mine  are  my  old  lacrosse  shoes,  with  studs,"  ex- 
plained Cynthia.  'They  are  no  good.  Do  let  me  try, 
Peter." 

"Oh,  I  say!    That's  the  notion,  of  course." 

He  made  way  for  her,  and  the  girl  went  up  lithely, 
bare  arms  reaching  overhead,  supple  body  balanced,  and 
her  feet  easily  maintaining  their  hold  on  the  smooth 


TRANSFORMATION  283 

stone.  Up  she  went !  Now  she  had  a  hand  on  the  top- 
most slab  of  granite,  now  her  head  rose  above  it,  shoul- 
ders followed ;  she  bent  over  it  and,  lifting  herself  with 
her  arms,  raised  a  knee  and  got  it  over  the  edge;  then 
brought  up  a  bare  foot,  and  was  stooping  on  one  knee 
upon  the  brink.  He  saw  her  suddenly  rise  lightly  and 
stand. 

"Hurry  up,"  she  called.  "The  stone  is  warm  and 
pleasant  to  one 's  toes  climbing,  and  it 's  more  than  warm 
on  top,  I  can  tell  you !  Too  hot  to  keep  still.  I  'm  going 
to  dance!"  Gracefully  she  sketched  a  few  steps;  then, 
as  Peter  joined  her,  pointed  down  to  round,  symmetrical 
hollows  in  the  granite  on  which  they  stood.  "Don't 
fall  in!"  she  said.  "They  call  these  sacrificial  basins, 
and  talk  of  druids,  but  don't  you  think  they  are  rather 
obviously  water-worn !  This  big  one  has  got  a  channel 
running  from  its  edge.  I  'm  sure  they  are.  Oh ! "  Two 
great  birds  mounted  majestically  from  below,  passing 
close,  and  then,  sweeping  away  from  the  humans,  sailed 
in  great  curves  higher  and  higher  until  they  became 
mere  specks  against  the  blue  sky. 

"Buzzards!"  she  told  him. 

"I  recognise  their  flight,"  said  Peter.  "I  must  have 
seen  some  before.  They're  like  aeroplanes." 

"Isn't  it  a  view?     Just  look  at  it!" 

Below  them  was  the  slope  they  had  ascended,  and  the 
moor,  and  Roughtor  Bridge,  and  the  hill  they  had 
driven  down  as  they  came  from  Camelford,  and  ridge 
after  ridge  of  green,  stretching  away  to  the  horizon 
beyond  which  were  hidden  the  dark  cliffs  of  Tintagel 
and  Boscastle.  The  houses  of  Delabole  and  its  queer, 
short-spired  church  were  outlined  against  the  sky  in 
the  distance.  The  roofs  of  Camelford  were  visible, 
trooping  into  the  valley  of  the  Camel.  With  interlocked 
arms  the  two  pressed  close  to  each  other  and  gazed  in 
speechless  happiness.  On  their  right  was  the  emerald-* 
hued  turf  of  the  summit  of  the  ridge  and  the  cairn  of 
Little  Roughtor,  almost  as  lofty  as  that  on  which  they 
stood ;  and,  showing  perceptible  traces  of  artificial  work, 
the  ruins  of  an  ancient  hill-fortress.  On  their  left,  far 


284  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

below,  stretched  a  wide  moor,  with  clay-workings  on  its 
distant  edge,  shining  white  in  the  sunlight.  Garrow 
and  Butters  Tor  rose  from  this  moorland,  the  former 
with  a  solitary  pine-tree  on  its  side.  Out  beyond 
stretched  hill  after  hill,  past  Hawk's  Tor;  and,  yet 
farther,  more  green  and  rounded  hills ;  and,  farther 
still,  a  well-wooded  country  and  the  obelisk  called  Bod- 
min  Monument,  with  fainter  and  bluer  hills  melting  into 
the  turquoise  sky.  As  they  turned  Brown  Willy  towered 
before  them;  and  between  the  two  mountains  ran  a 
slender  stream  which  issued  from  a  marsh  and  flowed 
down  past  Radgells,  after  which  it  bent  away  towards 
the  heart  of  the  moor  and  was  lost  from  sight  beyond 
two  pools,  where  it  curved  behind  Brown  Willy. 

Their  backs  were  now  towards  Camelf ord  and  the  sea ; 
they  were  facing  south-west.  Cynthia 's  pretty  toes  were 
over  the  edge  of  the  wall  up  which  they  had  climbed. 
She  seemed  to  hover,  as  though  she  might  leap  down 
twenty  feet  to  the  earth  below. 

Peter  noticed  the  toes.  ' '  Do  all  girls  have  pink,  shin- 
ing nails,  and  dainty  feet  and  slender  ankles  like  yours  ? ' ' 
he  asked.  "I'm  sure  they  can't  have." 

''Mine  are  supposed  to  be  rather  nice,"  Cynthia  ad- 
mitted. "If  you  like  them  I  might  become  conceited; 
so  help  me  down,  Peter,  and  don't  make  me  a  com- 
placent wife." 

They  clambered  down  and  stretched  themselves  hap- 
pily in  the  sun.  Cynthia  remembered  that  she  loved 
having  the  soles  of  her  feet  tickled, — a  recollection  from 
a  time  of  sleeping  with  Joyce, — and  demanded  the  lux- 
ury. Peter  took  the  beautiful  things  into  his  lap,  and 
presently  the  girl's  long  lids  drooped  and  rose,  she 
smiled  an  exquisite,  drowsy  smile,  which  said,  "I  love 
you. ' '  The  stars  of  her  eyes  were  veiled,  and  she  slept. 

He  watched  by  her  fragrant  young  body,  scented  with 
heather  scents  by  sun  and  air.  The  sunshine  beat  upon 
them,  the  fresh,  sparkling  air  blew  over  them,  the  blue 
sky  arched  overhead.  Youth  and  love  existed.  London 
had  never  been.  Shaun  was  a  small,  distant  figure  in 
the  memory — the  friend  who  was  scheming  to  help,  who 


TEANSFOEMATION  285 

was  following  at  that  moment  a  uniformed  messenger 
into  Sir  Everard's  office  for  the  second  consultation, — 
even  this  friend  was  dreamlike.  ' '  But  we  do  love  him, ' ' 
Peter  thought,  and  in  her  sleep  Cynthia  smiled.  "She's 
loving  him,  too,"  he  hoped,  gazing  deeply.  Her  flushed 
cheek  was  pillowed  on  the  white  beauty  of  an  out- 
stretched arm.  Curls  were  straying  upon  her  neck. 
The  sun  glinted  on  her  chestnut  hair  whose  masses  gained 
in  splendour  by  their  slight  disorder.  The  sleeve  of  her 
other  arm  had  become  unrolled  to  within  a  few  inches 
of  her  elbow.  She  raised  this  hand  in  a  beckoning  ges- 
ture, again  with  that  mysterious  smile,  and  he  trembled 
with  awe,  then  stooping  caught  the  whisper  of  his  name, 
and  kissed  her  wrist.  She  woke  with  such  happy  eyes! 

When  the  sun  had  passed  overhead,  when  they  had 
eaten  and  again  were  hungry,  they  made  their  way 
down  Roughtor  to  the  cold  and  amber  stream  with  rocks, 
black-lichened,  in  deep  pools,  and  peat-stained  rocks ; 
where  the  dragonfly  shot  over  the  surface  of  the  water 
and  a  vole  lifted  his  sleek  head,  only  to  dive  at  Cynthia's 
cry  of  joy.  And  they  played  with  the  stream.  A  dipper 
darted.  They  followed  the  flash  of  his  wings. 

It  led  them  back  to  Radgells  and  the  delights  of  tea. 
And  so  the  too  short  day  wore  swiftly  to  a  close.  Again 
they  climbed  high  Roughtor  to  watch  the  afterglow,  and 
saw  ragged  and  heavy  low-piled  clouds  over  the  line  of 
the  horizon,  like  hills  or  distant  islands  seen  across  fairy 
seas,  and  above  them  a  clear  orange  sky,  flecked  by  char- 
coal-shadowed smudges  that  turned  to  roseate  as  the 
orange  faded.  All  the  sky  grew  rose,  delicate  tinted  and 
ethereal,  and  slowly  paled. 


VII 

His  lips  were  upon  her  hair,  her  cheek  warm  on  his 
shoulder,  and  she  murmured  in  a  very  little  voice,  "I 
would  like  to  write  again  to  Mummy,  but  Shaun  said 
not.  I  suppose  I  mustn't,  and  I  will  be  good,  but  oh 
I  do  hope  she'll  love  me  again  soon." 

He  clasped  her:    "Cynthia,  Cynthia!" 

"You  are  first,  Peter.    Always.    My  darling!" 

"Wife!" 

"Husband!" 


286 


VIII 

BECAUSE  Cynthia  was  a  conventional  girl  she  intended 
to  take  with  her  to  Dozmary  Pool  a  copy  of  The  Passing 
of  Arthur,  but  Shaun  would  have  been  horrified  at  what 
she  did, — she  tore  out  the  pages  from  the  bound  volume. 
She  would  not  have  dreamt  of  doing  this  in  the  days  of 
Shaun ! 

Dozmary  lay  beyond  Bolventor  village,  which  is  the 
centre  of  the  moor  and  the  only  village  thereon,  about 
six  miles  from  Radgells.  The  direct  path  to  it  led 
across  the  stream,  between  Brown  Willy  and  Butters 
Tor,  past  the  disused  tin-streaming  sheds  and  pump  and 
the  two  pools  that  lay  desolately  at  the  foot  of  Brown- 
willy  Downs,  and  vanished  out  of  sight  past  a  moor- 
man's  cottage.  Mrs.  Trerice  pointed  out  the  track.  Yes, 
she  walked  there  once  a  year  for  the  chapel  outing,  and 
went  on  the  lake  in  a  boat;  twopence  each  for  adults 
and  children  free.  No,  she  did  not  feel  tired  after  the 
twelve  mile  walk.  She  wasn't  young  any  longer,  but 
she  was  still  brave  and  brisk.  Peter  and  Cynthia  decided 
to  climb  Brown  Willy  and  then  go  on  to  the  Pool.  Fif- 
teen miles,  including  a  mountain,  should  be  nothing  to 
youth,  if  '  no  longer  young ' '  could  manage  twelve  and  a 
jollification. 

"Not  that  Brown  Willy  is  a  very  lofty  mountain!" 
commented  Cynthia,  "at  least  compared  with  Switzer- 
land, or  even  Wales!  Is  it  higher  than  Roughtor? 
Dear  Brown  Willy,  I  don 't  want  to  disparage  you ! ' ' 

"It's  the  best  Cornwall  can  do,"  said  Peter,  labouring 
over  a  guidebook.  ' '  And  I  say !  Those  piles  of  rock, 
you  know, — the  one  we  climbed  on  Roughtor  yesterday, 
— piles  of  rock  like  that  are  called  'radgells'  when  they 
aren't  'tors.'  A  cairn  is  an  artificial  heap,  usually  over 

287 


288  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

the  grave  of  a  warrior,  but  the  one  on  the  summit  of 
Brown  Willy  was  placed  there  by  the  Ordnance  Survey. 
I  wonder  what  on  earth  for !  There  are  barrows  and  hut 
circles  and  stone  circles  and  fogous  all  over  the  place. 
It 's  what  they  call  a  '  wish '  kind  of  a  place,  this  moor ! ' ' 

"I  think  they're  friendly,  though,"  said  Cynthia. 
"Everything  is,  here." 

"I  daresay  they  don't  like  people  who  poke  about 
and  make  theories,"  Peter  suggested.  "Come  along, 
the  sun's  out  now."  They  crossed  the  stream  and  went 
first  to  examine  the  long  bricks  of  peats  set  out  to  dry. 
Trerice  was  busy  with  the  peat-spade,  slicing  away  at 
the  edge  of  a  round  black  pit  some  two  or  three  feet 
deep,  into  which  the  clods  fell  down.  The  next  process 
would  be  to  lift  them  out  and  strew  them  on  the  drying- 
ground,  and  finally  after  many  days  they  would  be  piled 
carefully  in  stacks  to  form  the  winter's  fuel.  As  hind 
he  possessed  the  right  of  turbary  and  he  was  working 
now  for  his  own  hand. 

"Did  you  notice  his  eyes?"  said  Peter,  as  the  two 
strode  away  uphill.  "They're  not  exactly  dreamy,  but 
he  always  looks  as  though  he  were  seeing  something  a 
long  way  off. ' ' 

"I  suppose  it  comes  from  doing  just  that  very  thing. 
Mountaineers  and  moormen  have  the  same  sort  of  look, 
I  think." 

"Yes,  and  sailors!" 

"They're  windy,  rolling  people.  The  others  step 
smoothly.  I  'm  not  clever,  Peter !  Shaun  pointed  it  out 
to  me." 

Their  rush  to  the  summit  of  Brown  Willy  substan- 
tiated his  claim  to  be  a  mountain!  They  found  he 
possessed  the  gifts  of  deceptive  distances  and  of  false 
peaks,  characteristic  of  all  mountains,  and  that  there 
was  stiff  climbing  to  be  done.  They  went  straight  and 
side  by  side,  helping  each  other  as  comrades.  What  a 
splendid  comrade  this  girl  made,  thought  breathless 
Peter;  while  Cynthia,  exulting  in  her  agility  and  activ- 
ity, was  yet  generously  glad  when  he  outstripped  her  and 
felt  delicious  thrills  of  joy  at  being  assisted  by  him. 


TRANSFORMATION  289 

She  loved  the  grip  of  his  hand  and  the  straining  pull  at 
her  arm  up  a  steep  place.  Accustomed  as  she  was  from 
childhood  to  have  her  looks  admired,  and  conscious  as 
she  was  of  their  distinction,  she  could  not  repress  a 
happy  triumph  at  the  involuntary  glance  he  always  cast 
at  the  beauty  of  the  bare,  flexing  arm.  The  unconscious- 
ness of  the  tribute  increased  its  value,  which  she  ap- 
praised with  joy  and  a  certain  childish  vanity  new  to 
her  own  knowledge  of  herself.  But  it  was  sweet  to  be 
admired  by  Peter,  to  sway  him  and  then  to  tremble 
into  submission!  She  longed  that  he  should  give  her 
a  sharp  word,  a  command,  or  even  a  blow.  Bracing 
herself,  defiant  at  the  thought,  she  withheld  the  hand 
that  he  reached  for,  her  pride  awakened  and  eager  for 
conflict;  then  collapsed  at  his  first  glance  of  surprise, 
beguiled  by  the  sweetness  of  surrender.  He  snatched 
her  wrist  almost  with  roughness  and  drew  her  to  him, 
clasping  her  waist;  then  swung  her  up  in  his  strong 
arms  and  carried  her  bodily  up  the  last  few  steps  to  the 
summit  of  Brown  Willy.  He  set  her  gently  down  beside 
the  cairn,  and  stood  with  downcast  look,  a  trifle  ashamed 
of  his  violence. 

"I  don't  know  why  I  did  that!"  he  said.  "I  hope 
I  didn't  hurt  you,  Star!" 

Cynthia  looked  away.  "I  should  have  liked  to  be 
hurt  by  you,"  she  said  with  abandonment.  She  inno- 
cently nestled  to  him;  then  shrank  away,  suddenly  shy. 
As  always,  he  respected  her  mood,  and  let  her  go. 

They  climbed  the  cairn  and  sat  side  by  side,  a  puzzle 
to  each  other  and  to  themselves.  They  were  not  yet 
completely  in  accord,  were  still  somewhat  wild  and 
strange  in  their  new  relationship.  The  comrades  were 
also  lovers,  and  the  lovers  had  not  learnt  to  be  comrades. 
Shaun  would  have  found  this  stage  in  their  development 
intensely  interesting,  for  he  held  that  the  happiest 
marriages  are  those  in  which  a  community  of  frankness 
is  established  during  the  first  few  days  of  the  honeymoon. 
He  had  foreseen  the  danger  of  this  couple  falling  short 
of  perfect  happiness.  Peter  was  a  reserved  boy,  Cynthia 
had  a  Rosemary  side  to  her  character  which  might  lead 


290  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

to  a  shrinking  back  after  a  first  impulsive  surrender: 
when  Peter's  reserve  and  his  sympathy  combined  might 
well  set  up  a  small,  unsurmountable  barrier  between 
them.  Such  a  barrier  sometimes  grows  with  the  months 
and  grows  with  the  years  until  from  being  scarcely  per- 
ceptible it  blots  out  the  sun  and  separates  the  courses 
of  two  lives. 

But  as  they  perched  there,  with  dangling  feet,  high 
above  the  green  world  of  plains  and  hills  rolling  away  to 
a  craggy  horizon,  the  beauty  of  the  scene  caused  them 
to  forget  their  own  selves,  their  difficulties  and  troubles ; 
and  their  minds  cleared  as  the  downs  to  sunshine  behind 
the  chasing  shadows.  They  pointed  out  to  each  other 
the  blackness  of  Kilmaur,  a  wild  hill  across  the  moor, 
and  were  trying  to  guess  where  the  Cheesewring  stood 
upon  the  horizon-range,  when  Peter  caught  a  glint  of 
light  beyond  the  only  wood  visible  in  that  wide  sweep 
of  country,  and  hailed  it  as  distant  Dozmary.  They 
scarcely  turned  to  look  at  Roughtor;  the  future,  the 
unexplored  held  all  their  interest.  Somewhere  below, 
at  the  foot  of  lofty  Brown  Willy,  was  Fowey  Well,  the 
source  of  the  Fowey  River,  whose  banks  they  could  see 
twisting  across  the  moor.  The  water  ran  too  low  be- 
tween to  be  discernible,  and  the  banks  at  this  distance 
had  the  appearance  of  stone  hedges,  so  that  the  river  van- 
ished in  the  guise  of  a  lane  behind  Codda  Tor. 

Suddenly  Cynthia  stretched  out  a  lovely  arm,  sun- 
kissed,  bare  to  the  shoulder,  and  pointed  leftward  to  a 
haze  in  the  middle  sky.  "Look!"  she  cried.  Dark 
land  was  piercing  the  far-off  greyness  like  an  island  ris- 
ing from  the  midst  of  a  sea,  and  as  the  mist  cleared  away 
a  plateau  was  revealed,  descending,  dropping  from  the 
sky  to  touch  the  horizon.  That  which  had  seemed  poised 
in  the  air  was  now  a  tableland,  higher  than  Brown  Willy, 
serrated  dimly  with  faint  peaks,  and  swiftly  it  vanished 
as  it  had  come.  Now  he  was  caught  by  the  gaze  of  her 
wondering  eyes,  wide-lidded,  and  she  breathed  "Dart- 
moor!" with  a  soft  amazement.  He  was  lost  in  the 
mystery  of  her  eyes.  Laughing,  she  started  forward, 
rising  with  outflung  arms  and  springing  from  the  side  of 


TRANSFORMATION  291 

the  cairn  to  the  ground,  on  which  she  swayed  upright 
with  easy  grace.  "Come,  Peter!"  cried  the  sweet, 
soprano  voice  as  he  stared.  She  beckoned  him  with 
voice  and  finger  pointing  in  a  lovely,  theatrical  gesture 
along  the  ridge.  ' '  I  thought  I  was  in  fairyland ! ' '  she 
cried.  "But,  oh,  it's  jolly  to  be  a  girl  alive!"  As- 
tonished at  her  changes,  Peter  jumped  down  and  followed. 
He  had  a  vague  idea  that  he  was  learning  to  know  woman. 

Her  white-clad  figure  ran  on  ahead.  She  was  wearing 
a  blue  scarf  to-day  in  place  of  a  belt,  and  he  caught  her 
by  it  and  it  came  undone.  Then  he  bound  her  wrists 
and  led  her  captive  to  where  his  knapsack  had  been 
thrown  off ;  and  they  played  hide-and-seek  on  the  rocky 
ridge,  making  themselves  as  hungry  as  hunters,  and  sat 
down  and  ate  a  solemn  sandwich  each.  Whortleberry 
bushes  grew  round  about,  Cornish  heath  not  yet  in  flower 
was  below  them  as  they  lay — a  springy  carpet;  stone- 
crop  starred  the  chinks  of  granite.  Sunshine  and  shadow 
swept  across  the  moor.  Great  white  clouds  sailed  stately 
over  the  sky,  and  the  wind  made  whispered  promises, 
lisping  in  broken  gusts  of  secrets  to  be  revealed ;  while 
the  heat  of  the  sun  was  scorching.  They  removed  into 
shadow  and  sat  cross-legged,  packing  the  parcel  as  slowly 
as  they  could. 

' '  I  wish  the  wind  would  tell,  instead  of  dying  away, ' ' 
chattered  the  girl.  "You  are  exasperating,  wind! 
Peter,  the  string,  please!  Thank  you,  dear.  Have  you 
noticed  how  different  Brown  Willy  is  from  Roughtor — 
no  great  boulders  strewn,  just  a  projecting  edge  of 
granite  like  a  wall,  as  far  as  the  clitter  they  call  Brown- 
willy  Downs?" 

"Yes,  and  the  rock  is  in  thinner  slices." 

"Slices,  Best  One?" 

"I  don't  mean  strata.  Don't  you  see  it's  worn  hori- 
zontally in  parallel  lines?" 

"Of  course  it  is,  impossibly  attractive  Peter!  I  like 
you,  Peter.  You  are  nice.  Now  we  ought  to  get  on  or 
we  shall  never  reach  Dozmary ! ' ' 

But  the  recesses  where  rushes  grew;  the  wet  patches; 
the  tracts  of  deep  moss;  the  shady  angles  and  caverns 


292  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

inviting  rest;  the  sunshiny  rock  faces  challenging  to  a 
climb ;  the  bracken  at  the  edge  of  the  clitter,  where  they 
found  the  skeleton  of  a  ram  picked  clean  by  the  buzzards 
and  towncrows,  its  ribs  gnawed  short  by  the  foxes,  then 
at  some  distance  away  his  curved  horns,  which  they  took 
as  a  memento;  the  fascination  of  the  cloud-shadows, 
coursing  over  the  billowing  plain  below ;  the  beguilements 
of  their  playfellow,  wind, — all  these  things  held  them 
back.  It  was  noon  when  they  raced  down  the  hillside, 
first  walking  with  balanced  care,  then  leaping  with  ex- 
cited shouts  from  rock  to  rock  over  a  rough  piece  of 
ground  that  did  not  descend  so  sheer,  and  ending  with 
a  wild  scamper  down  a  stretch  of  turf.  Cynthia  won  this 
time. 

"It's  a  wonder  we  haven't  broken  our  necks!"  ex- 
claimed she,  breathless,  busy  with  her  hair,  while  Peter, 
looking  back,  registered  a  mental  vow  not  to  risk  her 
precious  limbs  again. 

They  picked  up  the  path  beyond  the  turbary  and 
walked  steadily,  crossing  the  stream  at  Butters  Tor  by 
the  disused  tin-streaming  works,  passing  a  farmstead 
and  easily  finding  the  path  up  Pridacoombe  Downs.  On 
the  top  they  lost  it,  through  skirting  another  turbary 
where  there  was  soft  ground — or  else  it  had  ended  at  the 
turf-stacks :  at  any  rate  they  did  not  cross  Pridacoombe 
on  a  path,  and  a  swampy  way  they  found  it,  especially 
when  they  dropped  into  a  valley  and  made  for  the  land- 
mark of  an  apparent  cart-track  leading  up  a  hill.  This 
track  led  them  through  devious  ways  to  Tolborough 
Farm,  after  giving  them  a  view  from  the  hill  top  of 
Bolventor's  little  copse  and  church  and  a  few  houses, 
only  a  mile  or  so  away.  At  Tolborough  Cynthia  was 
frightened  by  a  ferocious  watchdog,  whose  master  luckily 
was  at  hand  to  call  him  off.  Whereupon  Peter  replaced 
in  the  hedge  the  mighty  stone  he  had  plucked  forth,  and 
all  was  peace. 

The  path  led  through  the  green  wood,  in  whose  borders 
a  few  anemones  and  foxgloves  were  growing,  to  Bol- 
ventor  and  the  great  high-road  which  they  now  suddenly 
perceived  running  right  and  left.  This  road  pierced  the 


TRANSFORMATION  293 

moor,  joining  Launceston  and  Bodmin.  They  were  glad 
that  it  soon  fled  out  of  sight  over  the  brows  of  low  hills. 
Here  in  the  centre  of  the  moor,  standing  back  from 
the  white  road  behind  a  square  courtyard  which  had 
Avelcomed  many  a  weary  traveller  by  coach  or  on  foot, 
was  the  broad,  squat  building  known  as  the  famous 
'Jamaica  Inn,'  of  which  many  a  smuggling  story  might 
be  told  and  many  a  tale  of  highwaymen  also.  Peter 
found  it — with  regret — to  be  now  a  temperance  hotel. 
He  and  Cynthia  rested  in  the  low-roofed  parlour  and 
admired  the  stuffed  trout  therein;  it  appeared  that  the 
hostelry  was  the  resort  of  fishermen,  and  that  the  Fowey 
River,  the  source  of  which  they  had  seen  from  Brown 
Willy,  flowed  near  by. 

Although  in  the  centre  of  the  moor,  it  was  evident  that 
Bolventor  was  buffeted  by  the  winds,  for  the  houses  by 
the  side  of  the  road  were  slated  in  front  as  well  as  on 
their  roofs.  Peter  was  curious  to  know  where  the  slates 
came  from,  but  he  did  not  stay  to  inquire,  as  on  leaving 
the  inn  they  had  noticed  storm-clouds  advancing  against 
the  wind.  Dozmary  was  still  a  moorland  mile  away. 
They  shrewdly  guessed  that  the  distance  would  turn  out 
double,  and  hurried  on  along  a  winding,  open  cart-road 
which  was  cut  through  rough  heath  and  led  steadily 
downhill.  Just  as  they  were  making  certain  that  they 
were  lost  they  came  suddenly  upon  the  magic  lake,  low- 
banked,  set  plainly  in  the  sloping,  shadowy  moors.  The 
track  brought  them  out  upon  the  edge  by  the  side  of  a 
single-storied  cottage  in  front  of  which  was  a  small 
landing-stage  and  boatshed.  Now  they  could  see  the 
whole  circle  of  the  lake.  They  were  standing  on  the 
pebbly  strand  at  the  edge  of  the  clear,  dark  water  under 
which  a  pebbly  bottom  shelved  gradually  away.  Where 
were  the  'bulrush  beds'  through  which  Sir  Bedivere  had 
thrashed  to  hurl  Excalibur?  They  could  not  find  them, 
and  then  their  keen,  young  eyes  discerned  far  across 
upon  the  right  a  patch  of  brighter  green  which  told  of 
reeds.  So  they  were  satisfied. 

"But  how  wide  the  lake  is!"  exclaimed  Cynthia.  "I 
never  thought  it  would  be  as  big  as  this." 


294  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

Peter  measured  it  with  a  swimmer's  eyes.  "A  quar- 
ter of  a  mile  across, ' '  he  said  decisively. 

"Arthur  put  out  in  this  boat  to  get  Excalibur."  She 
had  seated  herself,  and  was  reading. 

' '  The  Lady  of  the  Lake  lived  in  the  middle,  I  suppose, ' ' 
said  Peter,  opening  the  packet  of  sandwiches.   "Doesn't 
the  guidebook  say  that  the  lake  is  bottomless?" 
'I  believe  it  does." 

'I'd  like  to  have  a  swim  out  there  and  see." 
'Why  don't  you?" 
'Will  you  wait?" 

'Of  course."  So  Peter,  after  finishing  the  sandwich 
he  held  in  his  hand,  went  to  the  house.  He  found  that 
he  could  have  the  boat,  but  that  they  could  not  lend  him 
a  bathing  costume,  and  he  was  too  shy  to  proceed.  He 
returned  to  Cynthia  and  made  an  excuse. 

"We'll  come  again,"  he  said. 

"And  then  I'd  like  a  swim.  I  want  to  look  for  the 
bottom,  too." 

' '  Have  you  got  bathing  things  at  home,  Star  ? ' ' 

"No,  but  couldn't  we  go  in  to  Camelford  one 
morning  ?  I  must  have  a  swim  in  the  shining,  enchanted 
lake.  I'm  hot  as  anything,  now.  King  Arthur  would 
have  been  simply  baked  in  his  armour  on  a  day  like 
this." 

"There  goes  the  merry  old  sun  in  again,  and  here's 
the  first  drop  of  rain.  Shall  we  shelter  or  shall  we 
start  home?" 

"Is  that  thunder  rumbling?  No,  I'm  not  afraid  of 
thunder.  Peter,  you  are  sweet  to  me  always.  You 
never  think  of  yourself !  We  'd  better  start  back  I  should 
say.  Gracious!  I  never  remembered  that  my  sleeves 
were  rolled  up  when  I  went  into  the  inn.  Well,  it 
can't  be  helped  now.  Let's  finish  the  sandwiches  as 
we  go." 

Before  they  reached  Bolventor  they  were  both  soaked 
to  the  skin.  The  raindrops  were  running  down  the 
girl's  bare  arms,  her  thin  blouse  clung  to  her,  her 
masses  of  hair  were  damp  and  sleek.  "I  do  hate  look- 
ing like  this  before  you,"  she  said,  and  laughed  from 


TRANSFORMATION  295 

sheer  high  spirits.  "But  the  rain  is  awfully  jolly.  I 
don't  often  get  a  chance  of  a  thorough  wetting,  I  can 
tell  you,  Peter." 

"You  aren't  a  bit  what  I  thought  you  when  I  met 
you  in  drawing-rooms,"  he  said,  admiringly.  "You're 
such  an  open-air  girl.  I  love  your  courage." 

' '  Courage !  I  'm  enjoying  myself  tremendously.  But 
I  'm  lots  of  girls,  Peter  dear.  There  are  twenty  Cynthias 
and  dozens  of  Rosemaries,  all  belonging  to  Peter. ' ' 

"And  Stars?" 

"Only  one."  She  put  up  her  face  to  be  kissed,  but 
started  from  his  side  at  the  apparition  of  a  cyclist  clad 
in  blue  jeans,  who  emerged  suddenly  from  a  shed. 
On  the  instant  his  blue  jeans  became  indigo-streaked 
with  wet,  and  before  he  had  mounted  they  were  black 
and  sopping. 

"Have  you  ever  noticed  what  silly  things  one  says 
in  ordinary  conversation?"  asked  Cynthia,  after  a  while. 
"I  was  just  going  to  remark,  'It  can  rain  on  the  moor 
when  it  does  rain,  can't  it?'  ' 

' '  It  can, ' '  replied  Peter,  soberly ;  and  then — going  up 
past  Tolborough — they  were  overtaken  by  a  very  cheerful 
youth  with  a  sack  upon  his  shoulder  and  a  fork  in  his 
hand,  on  the  way  to  spread  top-dressing.  He  gave  them 
the  pleasantest  possible  grin  and  hurried  ahead,  singing 
out  of  tune. 

By  the  time  they  had  walked  a  mile  further  their  shoes 
were  squelching,  black  with  peat-mud,  and  heavy.  Prog- 
ress was  difficult  on  the  open  moor,  where  marshy 
patches  had  to  be  carefully  watched  for  and  avoided  by 
means  of  detours.  It  was  wonderful  how  quickly  dry 
ground  had  changed  into  a  swamp. 

And  as  they  plodded  they  found  themselves  discussing 
what  Shaun  would  have  said  to  their  parents  ("They 
are  yours  now,  as  well  as  mine!"  said  Cynthia).  The 
girl  was  sure  that  Lady  Bremner  would  return  at  once 
when  she  heard  the  news,  and  it  was  at  least  probable 
that  she  would  send  for  Shaun.  Peter  thought  it  certain 
and  expected  to  find  a  letter  on  their  return  with  an 
account  of  the  interview.  Cynthia,  however,  was  fearful 


296  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

lest  her  father  should  have  disposed  of  Shaun  altogether. 
She  did  not  in  her  heart  of  hearts  take  it  for  granted 
as  Peter  did  that  she  would  be  forgiven  almost  im- 
mediately, and  that  all  the  anger  would  be  directed 
against  her  young  husband ;  therefore  if  Shaun  were 
once  eliminated  from  the  affair  there  was  a  dreadful 
possibility — especially  if  the  elopement  became  public 
before  she  met  her  people — that  the  breach  might  be- 
come absolute.  All  depended  on  Shaun 's  tact  in  a 
singularly  difficult  situation.  She  did  not  doubt  Shaun, 
but  she  knew  Sir  Everard's  habit  of  listening  to  the 
teller  of  a  story  without  assisting  him  by  questions,  she 
knew  the  relentlessness  of  his  cross-examination  when 
the  story  was  complete.  It  seemed  well-nigh  impossible 
that  Shaun  should  say  what  he  had  to  say  without 
incriminating  himself  beyond  the  bounds  of  forgive- 
ness, and  then  who  would  intervene?  Not  Alan,  not 
her  brother.  He  would  cry  out  for  punishment.  Not 
her  mother,  who  would  be  too  shocked  and  overcome 
at  the  girl's  disobedience.  Cynthia  felt  sadly  that  only 
the  fear  of  scandal  would  have  much  influence  over 
Lady  Bremner  if  Shaun  failed;  yet  were  Daddy  to  de- 
cide upon  an  attitude  of  hostility,  she  would  follow  him 
with  scarcely  a  protest.  She  would  not  be  conscious  of 
her  affection  for  Cynthia  while  Daddy  remained  angry 
and  distressed.  And  he  might  cease  to  be  angry  and 
distressed  too  late! 

Peter  repeated  over  and  over  again  that  he  was  sure 
there  would  be  a  letter,  but  when  they  reached  home — 
Radgells  already  was  home — they  found  nothing  await- 
ing them  except  a  hearty  welcome,  and  garments  airing 
before  the  kitchen  fire.  There  was  no  letter;  and  he 
was  more  greatly  alarmed  than  he  cared  to  say,  for  his 
hopes  had  been  higher  than  Cynthia's,  and  he  had  ex- 
pected Shaun  to  be  frank.  She  read  his  mind,  and 
cried,  "He  told  us  to  enjoy  our  honeymoon,  Peter!  He 
won't  write  until  it  is  all,  all  settled.  Then  Father  and 
Mother  will  write  as  well."  He  prayed  that  she  might 
be  as  hopeful  as  her  words  sounded,  then  proceeded 
to  put  aside  his  anxiety  for  her  sake. 


IX 

THE  days  now  were  followed  by  white,  moonlight  nights. 
After  they  had  been  lying  awake  listening  to  a  fox 
barking  on  Brown  Willy  they  rose  to  see  the  sun  mount 
from  behind  the  eastern  hills.  There  was  a  dimness 
in  the  valley  and  the  stream  ran  silently.  They  stole 
along  it  walking  barefoot  in  dew,  shoes  and  towels  in 
their  hands,  in  search  of  a  pool  wherein  they  might 
bathe  their  bodies.  They  moved  in  silence,  awed  by  the 
hush  of  night. 

An  owl  hooted  and  they  thrilled!  The  dusky  scents 
of  night  rose  to  their  nostrils.  The  young  blood  sang 
in  their  veins.  They  felt  in  themselves  the  mysterious 
stirring  that  runs  through  nature  before  the  dawn. 
They  were  a  part  of  nature  and  the  great  moon  was 
paling  overhead. 

' '  The  brook  is  too  narrow, ' '  whispered  Cynthia.  ' '  We 
shall  not  find  a  deeper  place  than  this."  Lightly  clad, 
she  knelt  down  before  a  pool  into  which  a  water  rat 
had  dived.  His  ripples  vanished  and  her  lovely  image 
floated  indistinctly  beneath  the  silver  surface,  as  she 
curved  herself  with  palms  upon  the  brink  and  bending 
white  arms;  her  hair  was  upon  her  shoulders,  tresses 
streamed  below  her  rounded  elbows.  She  stooped  to  the 
smiling  eyes  and  her  hair  fell  forward,  drifting,  and 
swiftly  she  dipped  her  head  under,  and  started  up- 
right; then,  gliding  to  a  sitting  posture,  throwing  back 
her  dripping  locks,  began  to  bathe  her  slender  white 
feet. 

The  round  moon  hid  behind  a  cloud ;  face  and  limbs 
gleamed  in  the  darkness.  When  it  issued  forth  in 
glory,  she  was  standing  erect,  a  fair  young  Naiad — 
or  the  bright  goddess  Cynthia !  And  so  did  Peter  name 

297 


298  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

her  from  the  rock-rimmed  basin  where,  stripped  to  the 
waist,  he  was  performing  the  ritual  of  his  ablutions. 
Moon-lit,  in  the  warm  air  of  the  summer  night,  he,  too, 
appeared  a  god.  .  .  . 

The  two  young  lovers  were  running  together  up  the 
mountain  slope. 

Now  they  leaned,  panting,  against  the  cairn,  their 
backs  toward  Roughtor,  gazing  down  upon  the  moor.  He 
held  a  small,  smooth  hand  in  his  and  their  shoulders 
were  touching.  Once  he  heard  her  murmur, ' '  Happy  .  .  . 
Happy!"  at  his  side.  The  moonlight  was  fading.  The 
sharpness  of  its  silver  on  the  distant  hills  was  beginning 
to  melt  into  gold,  and  now  a  pale  streak  of  rose  bright- 
ened above,  outlining  the  craggy  summits  as  though  a 
jagged  black  line  had  been  drawn  against  the  sky.  From 
the  horizon  pearly  light  soared  upward,  like  the  out- 
spreading of  hands  that  were  lifting  the  veil  of  dark- 
ness. A  lofty  cloud  grew  pink. 

The  dawn  wind  was  stirring;  it  flickered  upon  the 
cheeks  of  the  watchers,  and  died  away.  Towards  them, 
over  the  grassy  downs,  over  the  broad,  turbulent  bosom 
of  the  moor  crept  a  quiet  radiance.  Now  the  hills  stood 
out  motionless  and  familiar;  light  began  to  flow  over 
the  ridges  into  the  valleys.  A  lark  shot  up,  triumphant ; 
and  the  rim  of  the  golden  sun  emerged,  sparkling  flames 
into  the  sky,  flames  which  swept  across  overhead,  leaped 
into  all  the  world,  and  dazzled  the  lovers'  eyes. 

The  sun  mounted,  a  splendid  conqueror.  His  disk 
almost  cleared  the  distant  hills  as  they  turned  reluctantly 
to  go.  Steadily  he  shone,  and  it  was  soft  and  dewy  day. 


"!F  you  are  expecting  anything,"  said  Cynthia,  "you 
may  be  sure  it  will  take  good  care  not  to  fetch  up  until 
you've  forgotten  it."  They  were  returning  from  an 
expedition  to  Camelford,  and  had  just  met  Mr.  Trerice 
upon  the  road  driving  an  enormous  sow.  He  had  told 
them  that  a  letter  had  come  at  last  and  beaming  had 
passed  along.  They  quickened  their  footsteps  down  the 
hill  which  leads  to  the  border  of  the  moor.  Roughtor  lay 
dark  to-day  with  grey  mist  at  his  foot  and  a  cloud  streak- 
ing from  his  summit  under  a  low  and  threatening  sky. 

"He  knows!"  said  Peter.  "The  old  lion  knows  our 
fate."  His  tone  was  very  anxious,  for  he  did  not  augur 
good  from  the  long  delay.  Eight  days  had  fled  since  they 
left  London. 

"Well,  he  wonl  tell.  I  had  forgotten  for  a  moment, 
that's  why  it's  come." 

"The  woman  is  always  the  brave  one.  Though  it 
means  everything  to  you,  your  voice  is  firm  and  mine 
trembles.  I  wish  I  could  take  some  of  this  anxiety  away 
from  you,  darling." 

' '  It  seems  to  me  you  bear  more  than  your  fair  share  as 
it  is!  I'm  not  brave." 

' '  Oh,  you  are ! ' '  His  voice  sounded  quite  reproachful. 
Not  even  Cynthia  should  dispraise  Cynthia. 

' '  I  must  say  I  should  like  a  pair  of  seven-league  boots. 
I  wonder  whether  there  could  be  a  message  from 
Mother!" 

That  day  after  shopping  in  Camelford  they  had  walked 
up  the  valley  along  the  swift-running  trout-stream, 
through  peaceful  meadows  and  under  shady  trees.  At 
last  they  had  come  to  a  clapper  bridge  where  a  road 

299 


300  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

crossed  the  Camel  upon  slabs  of  granite  supported  by 
piers  of  piled  single  stones  without  mortar,  two  piers 
being  built  into  the  banks,  the  inner  two  resting  in  the 
bed  of  the  ^stream.  On  either  side  lanes  dipped  sharply 
to  the  level  of  the  valley,  which  on  ahead  curved  to  the 
left,  forming  there  a  woody  background  to  the  old,  primi- 
tive bridge.  Ferns  grew  thick ;  ripples  of  reflected  light 
quivered  beautifully  through  the  centre  opening;  the 
stones  were  grey  and  ancient,  and  the  form  of  the  struc- 
ture, unspoilt  by  parapets,  was  satisfying  and  right  in 
its  graceful  simplicity.  The  noise  of  the  water  rose  like 
a  song. 

A  chiff-chaff  whistled  from  the  trees  as  they  turned  to 
go.  His  call  followed  them  monotonously,  fainter  and 
fainter,  until  it  was  not.  Then  a  blackbird  piped,  and 
they  met  a  tall  fisherman  trying  the  dark  pools  under  the 
bank,  casting  lightly  over  a  bramble  bush.  When  they 
had  left  behind  both  him  and  the  thrilling  music  of  the 
bird,  a  thought  had  struck  Peter  and  he  had  said — 
wrongly;  but  this  they  never  knew — "Why,  that  was 
Slaughter  Bridge !  *  Perhaps  King  Arthur  and  Modred 
fought  across  it. ' ' 

Now  as  they  hurried  past  the  hut  circles  marked  by  a 
round  of  stones,  almost  running  in  their  haste  and  pur- 
sued from  point  to  point  by  the  angry  pipits  and  wheat- 
ears,  the  picture  of  the  bridge  danced  before  their  eyes ; 
while  Cynthia  saw  behind  it  the  face  of  her  father  frown- 
ing, and  to  Peter  came  glimpses  of  Department  B  that 
fitted  in  curiously  with  the  gentler  vision.  The  sinister 
figure  of  Mr.  Lemon  loomed  in  a  corner,  crouched  massive 
over  his  roll-top  desk ;  it  was  singular  that  while  memory 
drew  the  desk  sharp  and  clear,  already  the  countenance 
of  his  foe  was  indistinct.  Ghostly  forms  turned  pitying 
looks  upon  Peter.  He  wrenched  his  mind  away  by  an 
effort  of  the  will,  walking  faster,  outstripping  the  girl. . . . 

Peter  gave  the  envelope  to  Cynthia,  who  clutched  it. 
She  hesitated,  pale  beneath  her  sun-tan,  standing  with 

*  The  real  Slaughter  Bridge  lies  in  the  opposite  direction  from 
Camelford,  northward.  It  has  been  strengthened  and  modernised, 
and  its  beauty  is  spoilt. 


TRANSFORMATION  301 

parted  lips,  frowning,  then  returned  it  to  Peter.    In  the 
end  they  read  it  together,  heads  close. 

Children, 

Up  to  the  present  they  are  keeping  it  secret — 
partly  my  effort,  partly  their  own  unusual  good  sense. 

Believe  they  are  trying  behind  my  back  to  find  runa- 
ways' address,  which  I  have  of  course  denied  having  (so 
I  can  always  call  to  ask  for  it!).  Alan  is  the  foe.  Do 
not  let  anyone  hear  of  you,  until  I  give  the  word.  This 
is  important.  You  must  not  meet  them  yet. 

/  am  assuring  them  I  daily  expect  to  receive  address. 
If  time  were  increasing  their  anger  I  might  give  this,  but 
I  believe  it  is  only  increasing  their  anxiety — a  good  sign. 
Sir  E.  inscrutable.  First  interview  hung  in  the  balance. 
I  just  managed  to  maintain  my  hold  on  the  tails  of  the 
acquaintanceship,  and  since  then  have  gained  ground. 
But  he  almost  trapped  me  to-day  by  handing  a  letter  and 
saying  quite  naturally,  "This  is  to  be  forwarded.  It  is 
from  her  cousin,  Joyce."  I  nearly  betrayed  myself 
through  taking  it  without  surprise,  and  had  to  feign 
stupidity.  "It  isn't  so  marked!"  I  exclaimed,  as  I 
handed  it  back.  I  could  think  of  nothing  better  in  the 
instant  I  had  in  which  to  recover  myself  and  finished 
under  his  stare:  "She  doesn't  know  anything  then.  She 
hasn't  even  heard  that  Cynthia  is  away  from  home. 
What  makes  you  think  she  expected  it  to  be  sent  on  any- 
where, Sir  Everardf"  I  thought  I  had  got  him,  and  did 
the  last  bit  well,  but  no!  He  only  replied  gravely, 
"Joyce  always  writes  to  this  address." 

Lady  B.  is  well,  and  very  self-controlled.  I  learn  prac- 
tically nothing  of  their  intentions  or  points  of  view — 
supposing  they  have  formulated  either,  which  is  uncer- 
tain. On  the  other  hand  I  have  managed  to  get  through 
to  both  most  that  I  wanted  to  convey. 

Both  seem  indifferent  to  'Great  Company'  incident.  If 
Man  has  given  his  own  account  it  has  not  succeeded.  On 
other  hand  they  are  not  great  believers  in  Peter's  future 
in  journalism!  I  enclose  seven  guineas  and  will  register 
this.  Send  me  some  more  political  caricatures,  Home 


302  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

Rule  or  Anti,  in  what  I  call  the  'cat'  style,  but  using  any 
animal  type.  I  must  have  them  regularly  now.  I'm 
keeping  copies  of  the  last  lot  in  case  you  did  not  see 
them  when  they  came  out.  But  you  must  keep  an  eye 
on  The  Times.  /  have  suggested  ad.  in  Agony  Column, 
forgiveness  'ad.,'  to  Lady  B. 

When  I  think  it  wise  to  admit  possession  of  address  1 
will  wire  full  instructions. 

Wait  and  be  patient.  Be  happy,  you  children,  while 
you  may  (not  ironic,  this!).  I  believe  all  is  going  well; 
and  remember  your  Mother  is  not  ill. 

S. 

"All  this  can't  last!"  exclaimed  Peter. 

' '  He  isn  't  a  good  letter-writer, ' '  sighed  the  girl.  ' '  He 
doesn't  tell  me  any  of  the  things  I  want  to  know."  She 
was  exceedingly  disappointed. 

So  was  Peter,  but  he  began  to  defend  Shaun.  "He 
says  that  if  he  tries  to  make  a  letter  literary  he  invariably 
finds  himself  embroidering  facts,  so  that  when  he  wants 
to  tell  the  truth  he  just  scrabbles!" 

"Yes,  I  know." 

"Of  course  you  do,  darling;  I'm  sorry!" 

"No,  don't  be  sorry.  I  was  a  pig.  But  I  mean  this. 
His  letter  may  not  be  literary,  but  it 's  thoroughly  artistic 
and  really  not  much  concerned  with  truth.  He  conceals 
all  sorts  of  things,  and  is  busy  all  the  time  giving  the 
impression  that  he  wants  to  give.  Granted  that  he  had 
to — really,  he  isn't  scrabbling,  Peter;  he  is  being  clever 
— still,  there  are  heaps  of  little  things  he  might  have 
told  me  about  Mother  if  he'd  been  what  I  call  a  good 
letter-writer,  small  gossipy  things,  how  she  looked  and  so 
on,  things  that  mean  an  awful  lot  to  me,  which  he  might 
have  included  without  betraying  the  things  he  wants  to 
conceal!" 

"Why,  what  do  you  think  he  wants  to  conceal?" 
expostulated  Peter. 

"That  they're  beastly  about  you,  especially  Mother." 
Peter  saw  her  dear,  dear  face  twitch  pitifully  like  a 
child 's  with  the  effort  to  keep  back  tears.  She  was  f urn- 


TRANSFORMATION  303 

bling  at  her  pocket.  She  sobbed  into  her  handkerchief, 
sniffing  unromantically ;  he  had  never  loved  her  more. 
' '  I  did  .  .  .  want  ...  to  hear  .  .  .  what  Mummy  said  .  .  . 
about  the  letter  I  wrote  her,"  she  said,  in  little  bursts. 
He  pressed  her  disconsolate  head  against  his  waistcoat; 
he  was  almost  as  anguished  as  she,  and  she  was  the 
saddest  girl !  It  seemed  to  her  that  even  Peter  did  not 
altogether  understand;  and  that  Shaun  did  not  know 
women  at  all  or  he  must  have  told  her.  Shaun  must  have 
asked,  ' '  Did  she  leave  no  letter,  then  ? ' '  and  even  though 
Mummy  had  answered  unkindly,  still  how  much  better 
it  would  have  been  to  tell  her  outright.  She  wanted  to 
hear  any  words  that  Mummy  had  spoken,  any  words; 
she  must  have  said  something  kind,  and  if  not,  then 
something  unkind  would  be  easier  to  bear  than  this 
seeming  to  have  no  mother  at  all ! 

So  sobbed  the  young  wife  on  her  husband's  shoulder. 
Peter  was  distraught.  He  promised  to  take  her  home, 
to  write  to  Sir  Everard,  to  write  to  Shaun,  and  after  a 
while  Cynthia  grew  calm.  They  walked  out  in  the  even- 
ing and  ordered  The  Times  to  be  sent  by  post  from 
Camelford;  there  was  no  message  in  that  day's  copy. 
Cynthia  now  declared  her  trust  in  Shaun,  refusing  to  let 
Peter  take  desperate  action.  She  seemed  ashamed  of  her- 
self— he  did  not  know  what  for! — and  on  the  whole 
cheerful.  Next  morning  she  was  laughing  again. 


XI 

SHE  was  laughing  again,  but  usually  after  Peter  had 
been  caught  gazing  at  her  apprehensively,  and  her  pallor 
made  Mrs.  Trerice  exclaim,  ' '  My  dear  soul ! ' '  However 
Peter  really  trusted  Shaun,  and  her  faith  in  Peter  was 
absolute,  which  he  had  not  at  present  taken  in,  being 
modest  by  nature.  After  one  more  day  she  recovered  her 
colour  and  became  serene,  outwardly  free  from  care. 

The  wind  was  blustering  and  yelling  about  the  house ; 
and  Mrs.  Trerice  was  telling  Peter  the  story  of  the  big 
billy-goat  horns  over  the  door  of  the  parlour.  He  had 
just  shown  her  the  twisted  ram's  horns  which  they  had 
picked  up  on  Brown  Willy.  She  was  saying:  "When 
the  cows  are  driven  out  on  the  moor  a  billy-goat  goes  up 
along  with  them,  for  'tes  said  that  a  goat  with  the  herd 
will  keep  the  cows  from  slipping  their  calves.  I  can't 
tell  whether  'tes  true  or  no,  but  they  hold  to  it  here- 
abouts. Gwenneth  and  I  found  those  horns  on  Brown 
Willy  on  the  edge  of  the  clitter  where  you  found  yours. 
We've  found  a  bra'  lot  of  horns  there  from  time  to 
time." 

Now  Cynthia  joined  them.  She  refused  with  grace  to 
accept  the  gift  of  a  pair,  delicately  offered.  The  woman 
and  the  girl  had  become  close  friends,  for  Cynthia  under- 
stood her  hostess 's  dearest  wish  and  ambition,  which  was 
to  live  '  come  by '  *  at  the  seaside  town  of  Newquay.  ' '  I 
comprehend  you  without  sympathy, ' '  Mr.  James  used  to 
say  about  this ;  but  from  the  beautiful,  fascinating  young 
lady  Mrs.  Trerice  received  the  fullest  sympathy  and 
understanding.  She  loved  the  moor,  and  when  she  had 
had  a  homeful  of  children  the  loneliness  had  not  seemed 
quite  so  complete.  One  after  another  they  had  grown 

*  By  and  by. 

304 


TRANSFORMATION  305 

up  and  gone  out  to  service  or  emigrated  or  enlisted. 
Gwenneth  was  the  last;  and  she  spent  almost  the  whole 
of  the  day  at  school.  Newquay  was  Mrs.  Trerice  's  dream 
in  the  same  way  as  in  years  to  come  the  Moor  might  be 
Cynthia's.  It  appeared  to  her  a  place  of  peace  and 
friendliness,  from  the  recollections  of  a  fortnight's  visit. 
She  loved,  on  the  long  winter  nights  when  storms  raved 
down  the  long  slopes  of  Brown  Willy  and  enveloped  the 
house  as  in  a  whirlwind,  dashing  ceaselessly  against  the 
ramparts  of  bold  Roughtor  only  to  fall  back  baffled  with 
howls  of  anguish,  she  loved  then  to  think  of  the  summer 
seas  and  of  rows  of  little  houses  all  containing  people  who 
would  be  kind  and  neighbourly :  she  loved  to  think  that 
some  day  she  might  live  there.  And  Cynthia  had  divined 
this  from  the  way  in  which  she  said  the  name  '  Newquay. ' 

Trerice  would  have  pined  in  Newquay;  there  Gwen- 
neth would  no  longer  have  loved  school.  For  these  rea- 
sons Mrs.  Trerice  kept  silent.  She  was  a  happy-tempered, 
active  person;  no  grumbler  or  nurser  of  grievances. 
Cynthia  was  proud  of  her  friendship,  and  Peter  learnt 
much  about  the  girl  he  had  married  by  watching  her  with 
the  older  woman,  being  instructed  in  the  making  of  but- 
ter or  in  the  mysteries  of  '  plain  sewing. '  Cynthia  set  to 
work  to  acquire  these  crafts  in  a  practical  manner,  as 
though  she  meant  to  make  use  of  them  in  the  future. 
She  was  determined  to  fit  herself  to  be  a  poor  man 's  wife ; 
and  it  was  hardly  the  measure  of  her  intellectual  success 
in  this  direction  that  dressmaking  and  buttermaking 
ranked  in  her  mind  as  weapons  of  equal  value  against  the 
wolf  which  howls  outside  the  doors  of  artists.  Not  that 
she  saw  herself  churning  in  a  little  attic  in  Soho  as  part 
of  the  routine  of  housekeeping — Cynthia  was  not  so 
ignorant.  But  she  certainly  had  a  romantic  notion  of 
some  day  earning  money  as  a  dairymaid  to  save  Peter 
from  starvation,  which  appeared  almost  as  probable — at 
least  almost  as  realisable — as  that  she  would  have  to 
make  her  own  blouses  and  skirts! 

Now  Peter  was  a  careful  soul  who  gazed  into  the  future 
before  dirtying  his  boots  unnecessarily.  Cynthia  puzzled 
him  by  bringing  out  pair  after  pair  of  white  shoes.  One 


306  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

day  they  were  on  Roughtor  soon  after  sunrise,  watching 
the  light  in  a  white  sheet  behind  falling  rain.  The 
shower  was  approaching  them,  and  they  were  in  shelter. 
Said  Peter,  "Why  do  you  always  wear  white  shoes, 
Starry  dear?" 

Cynthia  glanced  first  at  her  shoes  and  then  at  him, 
diffidently. 

"Don't  you  think  I  can  wear  them?  I  won't  if  you 
don't  like,  Peter.  I  always  thought  my  feet  were  small 
enough,  but  I  daresay  I  was  conceited. ' ' 

Gulfs  yawned  before  Peter.  They  closed,  and  he 
suddenly  felt  a  very  great  responsibility. 

"Of  course  you  can,  in  that  sense,  Starry.  No  girl  in 
the  world  has  got  such  pretty  feet  as  you.  But  who  will 
clean  them?" 

"I  was  going  to  use  them  all  up  and  then  ask  Mrs. 
Trerice  for  some  pipeclay  and  do  them  myself." 

"You  are  a  darling!"  said  Peter,  betraying  that  he 
had  not  thought  of  that  solution  of  the  matter.  "But 
she  won't  have  any  pipeclay,  you  know." 

"No  more  she  will!  We  must  get  some  when  we  go 
next  into  Camelford." 

"And  it's  a  tiring  job.  Have  you  ever  tried  it, 
Starry?" 

"No.  Now  remember  our  compact,  and  don't  ask  me 
to  let  you  do  it  for  me,  because  I  won't." 

' '  I  shouldn  't  have  agreed  to  let  you  help  in  the  house- 
work, and  do  your  share,  and  all  the  rest  of  it,  if  I'd 
imagined  you  meant  to  start  by  pipeclaying  six  pairs  of 
shoes. ' ' 

"  I  'm  going  to  wash  my  clothes,  too. ' ' 

' '  Starry,  you  '11  kill  yourself !  You  always  wear  white. 
People  who  wash  their  own  clothes  don 't  wear  white ! ' ' 

"It's  practice.  I  mean  the  washing.  And  I'm  sure 
you  are  going  to  be  successful,  so  I  shan't  have  to  do  it 
always!" 

Peter  had  a  very  shrewd  idea  that  Mrs.  Trerice  would 
not  allow  her  to  do  it  once.  He  perceived  dimly  the 
extent  of  his  young  wife 's  inexperience  and  most  clearly 
her  courage.  A  problem  was  foreshadowed  by  his  im- 


TRANSFORMATION  307 

mediate  resolve  to  work  on  a  political  cartoon  that  day 
instead  of  drawing  the  scene  which  was  before  them. 
Peter  had  brought  his  water-colours  to  Cornwall,  and 
found  himself  spending  more  and  more  hours  in  painting 
a  tor  seen  uphill  against  the  sky,  or  the  view  downward 
from  a  precipice,  or  grass  blades  waving  against  a  blue 
vault  as  you  see  them  when  lying  supine  in  a  meadow. 
The  obvious  in  composition  did  not  appeal  to  him.  And 
one  day  he  was  sketching  in  line  after  line  of  rounded, 
heather  hills,  backed  by  black  lightning- jagged  Kilmaur 
and  Cheesewring,  when  a  tourist  with  knapsack  on  back 
came  silently  and  unperceived — for  Cynthia  was  asleep — 
and  looked  over  the  artist's  shoulder.  All  at  once  he 
tapped  Peter  on  the  arm,  startling  him  so  that  he  nearly 
fell  off  his  campstool,  and  demanded  in  a  deep,  rough 
voice,  "Who  told  you  to  do  it  that  way,  my  boy?" 
Cynthia  sat  up  with  a  jump. 

Peter  did  not  appreciate  being  called '  my  boy. '  Glanc- 
ing round  and  up  he  saw  an  extremely  insignificant 
elderly  face,  quite  out  of  keeping  with  the  powerful  voice 
of  the  stranger.  "No  one,"  he  said,  civilly. 

' '  The  devil  he  did ! ' '  exclaimed  the  tourist. 

"You've  awakened  my  wife,"  said  Peter,  in  a  tone  of 
dignified  reproof. 

"I'm  not  interested  in  your  wife,  sir!"  retorted  the 
other.  ' '  I  am  interested  in  your  work.  Call  upon  me  in 
town  in  four  weeks'  time.  I  beg  your  pardon,  madam." 
This  to  Cynthia  who  was  still  seated  rubbing  her  eyes. 
' '  Have  you  got  a  pencil  in  your  pocket,  boy  ? ' ' 

"Do  you  mean  me?"  demanded  Peter  angrily. 

"I  see  no  other  boy  in  the  landscape." 

Peter  produced  the  pencil,  just  as  Cynthia  scrambled 
to  her  knees  and  sprang  up  with  a  little  cry.  The 
stranger  grinned.  "Don't  give  me  away,"  he  said  to 
her ;  "  I  don 't  want  to  be  bothered  now. ' '  He  snatched 
the  block  from  Peter's  knee  to  use  as  a  pad,  and  wrote  a 
name  and  address  on  a  cigarette  paper  which  he  took  out 
of  the  pocket  of  his  Norfolk  coat  in  company  with  a  quan- 
tity of  others  loose  amongst  a  tangled  mass  of  string, 
bootlaces,  coins,  buttons,  and  fluff.  "Your  sketch  hasn't 


308  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

any  value,"  he  said  to  Peter  soothingly,  as  the  latter 
sprang  up  in  a  fury ;  adding  in  a  businesslike  voice, ' '  But 
I  think  I  '11  teach  you.  Now  be  a  sensible  chap  when  you 
come,  and  don't  offer  me  money.  I  couldn't  stand  that 
from  a  youngster.  Ought  I  to  remember  you,  madam  ? ' ' 

"You've  never  been  introduced  to  me,"  Cynthia  re- 
assured him. 

"Ah!  I  trust  to  have  that  pleasure  later  on."  His 
tone  had  altered  to  a  very  charming,  old-fashioned  for- 
mality. "Good  morning!"  He  bowed,  pulled  his  bat- 
tered slouch  hat  tighter  on  his  head  by  way  of  a  farewell 
salute,  and  marched  swaggering  down  the  hill. 

"He  doesn't  take  pupils  as  a  rule!"  said  Cynthia, 
excitedly,  when  he  had  passed  out  of  hearing. 

' '  He  won 't  take  this  one ! ' '  declared  Peter,  very  indig- 
nant; but  on  reading  the  name  on  the  paper  which  he 
held  in  his  hand  he  turned  all  colours  and  cried  out, 
"Jove!"  Then  he  stared  at  his  sketching  block  as 
though  it  contained  the  secret  of  life  and  death.  "He 
said  it  has  no  value,  and  it  can't  have  if  he  says  so.  I 
don't  understand ! " 

"Well,  he  liked  it  and  he  liked  you!" 

"I'd  have  been  off  my  stool  and  kneeling  if  I  had 
known  who  he  was!  Cynthia,  it's  the  most  wonderful 
thing  that  ever  happened  to  a  man.  Now  that  I  come 
to  think,  of  course  he 's  the  very  chap  to  sympathise  with 
what  I  was  trying  to  do.  Only  I  shouldn  't  have  thought 
my  colour  was  good  enough  to  let  him  see." 

"I  should,"  said  the  girl,  eyes  bright  and  dancing. 

He  was  caught  by  her  loveliness,  and  stood  gazing. 
"You  are  the  most  brilliant  creature,  Starry  dearest.  I 
wish  I  were  a  portrait  painter." 

She  challenged  this.    "You  don't." 

"No,  I  don't  really.  Not  to-day.  But  I  say,  I  wish  I 
wasn't  going  to  be  a  cartoonist,  then.  After  all  I  ... 
How  did  you  know?  I've  always  loved  landscape  work 
best,  but  I  don't  see  how  you  knew!  Because  I've 
bucked  into  this  caricature  job  as  hard  as  ever  I  could. 
I  've  tried  to  put  every  ounce  of  me  into  it.  I  had  to  take 
to  portraiture  more  or  less  because  I  never  got  a  chance 


TRANSFORMATION  309 

to  use  colours  while  I  was  in  the  Great  Company — at 
least  only  frightfully  seldom;  and  then  Shaun  said  I 
could  make  money  by  developing  a  particular  line,  and 
— how  did  you  know?  You've  never  seen  my  old  land- 
scape portfolios,  and  I  never  showed  them  to  Shaun, 
because  they  are  kiddish  and  rotten,  most  of  them." 
Peter  had  never  made  so  long  a  speech  in  his  life  before. 

She  came  and  laid  her  cheek  against  his,  murmuring, 
"I  noticed  things." 

' '  What  things  ? "    He  was  still  mystified. 

"Darling,  you've  painted  the  moor,  but  never  me; 
and  a  real  portrait  painter  would  have  done  just  the 
reverse. ' ' 

' '  But  who  could  paint  you,  you  Beautiful  Thing  ? ' ' 

"You  used  to  draw  me,  when  you  couldn't  get  land- 
scapes. Who  could  paint  the  moor?" 

"He  can." 

"Oh,  well;  you  know  what  I  mean." 

"Yes,  I  do,  and  you  are  the  cleverest!" 

It  will  be  observed  that  neither  was  Cynthia  jealous  of 
his  work  nor  did  Peter  consider  the  possibility  of  her 
being  so ;  he  was  more  of  an  artist  than  he  knew.  Shaun 
would  have  rejoiced  whole-heartedly  at  the  little  scene  as 
a  proof  that  they  were  suited  to  each  other.  They  both 
wrote  a  long  account  to  him,  Cynthia 's  conclusion  being, 
I  will  try  to  be  sensible,  Shaun,  but  I  would  sooner  go 
and  be  a  lady's  maid  than  spoil  Peter's  real  work.  He 
is  sending  you  several  cartoons.  Peter  ended  with,  Don't 
be  too  much  afraid  I'll  be  a  beast.  It  was  after  a  talk 
with  her  about  white  shoes  that  I  became  unselfish  for 
about  five  minutes,  and  tackled  the  stuff  for  the  weeklies. 
Neither  of  them  said  much  about  the  Bremners,  only  a 
few  words  of  confidence  in  their  friend. 

All  this  time  they  were  learning  each  other's  small 
personal  habits,  tastes,  and  failings.  Peter  had  a  way  of 
spilling  the  salt ;  he  preferred  mutton  to  beef  and  would 
not  eat  eggs  if  he  could  help  it;  he  seemed  to  Cynthia 
extraordinarily  sweet-tempered  unless  disturbed  while 
smoking  his  after-dinner  pipe,  in  which  case  he  showed 
faint  signs  of  irritation.  By  refraining  from  interferen<L 


310  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

with  this  sacred  ceremony  it  appeared  she  might  be 
provoking  as  she  pleased.  She  tried  once  or  twice,  just 
to  see,  and  it  was  so.  Moreover  he  never  minded  waiting 
while  she  changed,  however  long  she  took;  nor  did  he 
object  to  giving  his  opinion  to  an  unlimited  extent  on  the 
becomingness  of  hats,  though  she  had  a  way  of  flitting 
undecidedly  from  one  to  the  other  which  Joyce  had  once 
warned  her  would  bore  her  husband  very  much !  ' '  I  'm 
not  dressing  for  Camelford,  exactly,"  she  told  him  one 
morning,  "but  I  want  the  Camelfordians  to  envy  my 
husband.  It  seems  much  more  difficult  to  make  up  one's 
mind  when  one  has  only  four  hats  to  choose  from ! "  "I 
think  them  all  equally  jolly,"  he  assured  her  gravely. 
He  discovered  to  his  surprise  that  it  mattered  how  a 
hat  was  put  on,  and  that  the  curve  of  a  brim  might  be 
an  affair  of  the  deepest  consideration.  On  the  other 
hand,  he  found  her  a  sporting  girl,  who  would  always 
dress  in  a  hurry  if  there  was  need.  When  they  saw  a 
badger  from  their  bedroom  window  in  the  early  morning, 
she  did  not  mind  running  out  'anyhow.'  In  her  des- 
habille Cynthia  could  be  artistic  without  effort.  She 
had  a  natural  instinct  for  dress.  Peter  noticed  in  fact 
that  when  attiring  herself  most  carefully  she  generally 
returned  to  her  first  choice.  After  he  had  once  remarked 
upon  this  the  conferences  before  the  looking-glass  became 
much  shorter,  as  Cynthia  took  the  hint  that  he  had  not 
intended. 

Also  their  personal  and  intimate  relations,  which  at 
first  had  been  far  less  embarrassing  than  either  had 
dared  to  hope,  but  later  had  become  subject  to  many 
reactions  of  cruel  and  perplexing  shyness,  recovered  by 
degrees  the  quality  of  simple  naturalness. 


XII 

THEY  had  crossed  Roughtor  Bridge  and  turned  to  the 
left  through  Watergate  to  Advent  Church,  intending  to 
strike  in  to  the  moor  again  at  the  Devil's  Jump  Gorge 
and,  making  a  round  by  King  Arthur 's  Hall,  go  home  by 
Garrow,  which  would  be  a  walk  of  eleven  or  twelve  miles 
unless  they  lost  their  way;  and  with  so  short  a  day's 
tramp  before  them  they  could  afford  to  go  leisurely 
through  the  summer  lanes  and  halt  at  every  stile.  The 
green  hedges  were  moist  from  a  shower,  and  the  sun  drew 
out  the  fresh  scents  of  honeysuckle  and  dog-rose  and 
sweetbrier.  Here  and  there  a  clump  of  gorse  was  flaming, 
and  tall  foxgloves  were  ringing  their  purple  bells  which 
only  the  fairies  and  true  lovers  can  hear,  scarcely  praised 
by  Peter  and  Cynthia,  who  were  absorbed  in  each  other 
and  a  thrilling  discussion  of  where  they  should  live  in  the 
future,  which  brought  echoes  of  rattling  London  streets 
and  visions  of  Hampstead  and  Soho.  They  came  to  a 
mill,  where  the  song  of  a  thrush  above  the  laughing  water 
won  them  back  to  the  present  of  quiet  places  and  golden 
sunshine  and  pale-blue  sky. 

On  consulting  the  map  they  found  they  had  overshot 
the  path,  but  this  was  the  Camel  River ;  if  they  went  to 
the  left,  down  stream,  they  would  reach  a  tributary 
which  flowed  from  the  Devil's  Jump  Gorge.  So  they 
scrambled  over  the  parapet  of  the  stone  bridge  and 
dropped  into  the  meadow,  and  pursued  their  way,  tres- 
passing, along  the  clucking,  singing,  hurrying  water ;  past 
lofty  flags  and  bulrushes,  and  dark  trout-pools,  and 
swirls  round  the  corners  of  curving  banks;  through 
hedges,  and  over  them  sometimes  by  the  help  of  a 
friendly  tree,  anyhow,  any  way  to  avoid  turning  back. 
Once  they  crossed  a  narrow  field  in  the  middle  of  which 

311 


312  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

a  great  bull  was  grazing.  He  raised  his  head  and  looked 
at  them  wickedly  and  snorted,  then  bent  to  his  meal 
again.  And  they  caught  a  glimpse  between  two  willow- 
bushes  of  the  blue  flash  of  a  kingfisher's  flight,  and 
startled  a  brace  of  mallards,  which  broke  away  whirring ; 
but  they  saw  no  otter,  although  they  watched  for  him, 
moving  craftily.  Neither  did  they  meet  a  man  who 
might  reprove  their  trespass. 

After  half  a  mile  they  arrived  at  the  junction  of  the 
streams  and,  following  the  tributary,  came  almost  im- 
mediately to  a  farm  track  and  the  crossing;  thence, 
bearing  wide  of  marshy  ground  overgrown  with  rank 
vegetation,  reeds  and  willow-shrubs,  took  a  path  that  led 
towards  the  mouth  of  the  gorge.  The  song  of  the  water 
came  to  them  louder  and  more  rapid,  and  now  they  had 
a  full  view  of  the  great  crags  facing  each  other  on  high 
across  the  ravine;  one,  which  jutted  out  from  black, 
waste  earth,  was  poised  castle-like  on  the  brow  of  a  preci- 
pice; the  other — that  on  the  slope  which  they  were 
approaching — emerged,  like  a  wall  of  granite  piled  by 
giant  hands,  from  among  rich,  green  bracken  and  pro- 
jected above  the  almost  sheer  descent  to  the  torrent. 
This  side  of  the  gorge  was  well  wooded  below,  with  oak 
and  mountain  ash  and  sycamore  and  dense-growing 
withies  and  tangled  bush,  under  which  the  bracken  was 
spreading  waist-high.  They  found  the  thicket  impassable 
in  the  shadow  by  the  water  and  struck  upward,  away 
from  the  taller  trees,  clambering  with  difficulty  into  sun- 
light up  an  incline  as  steep  as  the  roof  of  a  house  and 
clittered  with  moss-hidden  boulders  beneath  the  green, 
branching  fronds  of  the  bracken.  Slowly  they  ascended 
to  the  level  of  the  mighty  mass  of  granite,  and  when 
they  had  attained  it  at  last,  Cynthia  would  not  be  satis- 
fied without  climbing  on  the  rock.  She  balanced  her  way 
airily  out  onto  the  overhanging  crag  at  the  end,  while  Pe- 
ter, his  heart  in  his  mouth,  edged  cautiously  behind  her. 

Over  their  heads  a  heron  sailed  majestically.  Opposite 
was  the  castle-crag,  and  below  rushed  the  stream,  looking 
like  cotton-wool,  so  far  down  it  was;  seeming  motion- 
less, but  clattering  with  a  steady  uproar  over  its  stony 


TRANSFORMATION  313 

bottom.  For  half  a  mile  the  gorge  ran  straight,  then 
curved  sharply  away  at  a  point  where  it  was  still  cleft 
deep  into  the  moor.  The  sky  was  grey,  shadows  brooded 
over  the  glen,  for  the  last,  fitful  gleam  of  sunshine  had 
departed.  The  tops  of  the  birches  and  sycamores,  below 
to  the  left  whence  they  had  come,  were  shivering  mistily. 
As  they  had  climbed  they  had  left  behind  them  the 
cooing  of  wood-pigeons  and  the  harsh,  distinctive  cry 
of  the  woodpecker;  here  was  no  sound  save  the  rattle 
of  the  torrent,  which  ascended  to  their  ears  in  a  musical 
and  threatening  murmur.  "It's  going  to  rain,"  said 
Cynthia,  prosaically.  Turning,  she  saw  that  Peter  had 
crawled  back  on  hands  and  knees,  and  was  about  to 
imitate  him  when  she  glanced  at  her  skirt  and  hesitated, 
then  walked  beautifully  back.  After  all,  she  knew  that 
Peter  was  not  jealous! 

Then  they  broke  their  way  through  the  bracken  to  a 
rock  where  a  great  crevice  promised  shelter,  and  in  front 
of  it  crushed  down  a  carpet  of  bracken  with  their  sticks, 
so  that  the  scent  of  the  sap  rose  strong.  And  there 
they  took  their  meal,  startled  once  by  the  sudden,  noise- 
less flight  of  a  goatsucker  from  near  by,  and  there  they 
fell  to  talking. 

First  Peter  discovered  that  Cynthia  had  always 
wanted  a  fox-terrier,  but  no  dogs  had  been  allowed  in 
the  Bremner  household  since  one  had  bitten  Alan  when 
he  was  a  little  baby.  The  subject  was  full  of  interest. 

Then  the  nature  of  the  prohibition  emerged.  Sir 
Everard  had  given  an  order,  which  through  lapse  of  time 
had  acquired  the  force  of  a  moral  law.  "I  think — you 
know,  about  us, — that  Daddy  might  give  in,  if  only 
Mummy  doesn 't  take  it  for  granted  he  won't. ' '  She  said 
this  sadly,  for  she  knew  how  often  parents — and  hers  in 
particular — harden  each  other 's  resolves  in  this  manner. 
From  that,  easily,  they  found  themselves  discussing 
Shaun. 

Now,  during  the  past  fortnight,  in  the  peace  of  their 
moorland  life,  and  with  their  new  knowledge  of  each 
other's  natures,  for  Peter  had  by  this  time  learnt  the 
underlying  simplicity  of  his  wife's  character  and  loved 


314  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

her  the  more  for  it,  they  had  both  begun  to  criticise  the 
subtle  methods  of  Shaun.  Cynthia  was  open  and  candid 
now,  with  her  back  to  the  world,  her  hand  in  Peter 's  and 
her  face  towards  Paradise ;  she  felt  within  her  courage  to 
stand  against  her  parents  and  wondered  why  she  had 
feared  to  confront  them  before.  She  longed  for  the 
sound  of  their  voices;  yet  she  did  not  think  that  they 
were  friendly  towards  her,  and  when  Peter  said,  "I 
notice  you  do  not  rush  for  The  Times,"  she  answered 
without  hesitation : 

' '  They  won 't  advertise  in  The  Times  I  Shaun  doesn  't 
understand  them,  and  I  don't  believe  they  forgive  me 
a  bit.  Anyhow  they  wouldn  't  use  the  Agony  Column  of 
The  Times.  It  isn't  like  them." 

Peter  was  given  a  shock  by  this  outspokenness.  He 
had  first  of  all  accepted  Shaun  at  Cynthia 's  high  valua- 
tion, but  whereas  the  girl  had  learnt  to  disparage  Shaun 's 
cleverness  by  contrasting  it  with  Peter's  straightforward- 
ness (aided  thereto  largely  by  Shaun 's  own  self-sacrific- 
ing efforts)  Peter  himself  with  greater  knowledge  of  the 
man  had  gained  increased  respect  for  his  character.  He 
did  not  attempt  to  make  any  comparison  between  his 
friend  and  his  wife. 

"I  think  he's  clever  enough,"  he  answered,  "don't 
you?  That  is  only  some  game  of  his,  which  we  don't 
understand.  What  I  feel  is,  first  that  it  is  horribly  rough 
on  you  not  to  give  you  news  of  your  Mother,  and  sec- 
ondly that  I  ought  to  be  there  in  his  place.  Now  that 
the  Great  Company  is  left  behind  I'd  like  to  be  abso- 
lutely straight  about  every  mortal  thing  until  the  end  of 
my  life." 

"Exactly!"  said  Cynthia.  "The  last  thing,  I  mean. 
I  don't  care  about  myself  so  much,  Peter;  but  I've 
watched  you  being  worried,  and  I  hate  it. ' ' 

•"And  I've  seen  you." 

"Well,  he  oughtn't  to.  Shaun  likes  intrigue  for  its 
own  sake.  I  believe  he 's  going  too  far. ' ' 

' '  Starry,  you  're  a  bit  cruel ! ' ' 

' '  Oh,  Peter,  I  'm  not !  But  since  I  've  known  you,  and 
his  personality  hasn't  dominated  me  in  the  way  it  used 


TRANSFORMATION  315 

to  do,  I  've  got  a  higher  standard  of  behaviour,  I  think. 
Don't  imagine  I'm  blaming  Shaun!  I'm  not  such  a 
beast — quite — for  we  owe  him  everything.  But  I  see 
things  differently  from  him.  Anything  that  happens 
wrong  now  is  my  fault  for  being  such  a  coward." 

"  It 's  mine  for  leading  you  wrong ! ' ' 

She  nestled  to  him.  ' '  I  've  been  talking  like  an  awful 
prig,"  she  whispered.  "I  expect  I'd  be  a  coward  again 
if  I  were  back.  But  I  don't  feel  so,  Peter.  You've 
taught  me  better. ' ' 

"I!  .  .  .  Darling!  .  .  .  Darling!  You  mustn't  say 
things  like  that.  It's  you  who  teach  me." 

While  they  were  talking  the  rain  had  begun  to  fall, 
pittering  on  the  crushed  stems  of  the  bracken  which  lay 
before  the  great  cleft,  in  which  they  were  seated  as  in 
the  entrance  to  a  cave ;  when  they  leaned  back,  stooping 
their  heads  to  avoid  the  overhanging  rock,  they  were 
sheltered.  They  could  see  a  slope  of  wet,  shining 
bracken,  and  then  the  gulf,  and  beyond,  black  cliff ;  from 
below  mounted  the  noise  of  the  torrent,  seeming  now 
more  distant.  And  as  they  were  digging  a  hole  to  bury 
the  paper  from  their  lunch  the  sound  abruptly  ceased; 
they  looked  up  and  saw  that  a  curtain  of  thick  white 
mist  had  fallen  before  their  hiding-place,  shutting  them 
off  from  the  world  completely.  The  raindrops  no  longer 
pattered  upon  the  bracken,  and  they  were  alone. 

The  dew  pearled  on  Cynthia's  silken  hair,  her  cheeks 
were  cold  but  rosy,  the  muslin  of  her  blouse  clung  damply 
to  her  arms,  and  when,  too  late,  she  rolled  her  sleeves 
high,  they  were  sodden  and  dripped  long  drops  down  her 
lovely,  rounded  upper  arms,  drops  that  ran  over  her  bent 
elbows  (her  hands  were  joined  upon  her  lap)  and  slowly 
crept  to  her  slender  wrists.  "We're  getting  soaked!" 
said  Peter,  and  they  were  about  to  go,  when  they  heard 
behind  them  a  musical,  sustained  cheeping  and  chipper- 
ing  like  the  sound  of  water  gurgling  out  of  a  narrow- 
necked  jug,  on  two  high  notes  with  occasionally  others 
interjected,  in  a  way  that  gave  the  song  a  peculiar 
rippling  quality.  Cynthia  turned  and  slipped  to  her 
knees,  reckless  of  her  dress.  "There  must  be  a  little 


316  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

bird  inside, ' '  she  whispered,  searching  the  crannies  with 
her  eyes,  and  then  they  saw,  running  to  and  fro  in  a 
desolate  way,  a  tiny  field  mouse,  who  was  flicking  his 
whiskers  agitatedly  as  though  he  knew  they  had  wronged 
him.  "Oh,  pretty!"  cried  the  girl,  and  he  seemed 
so  tame  that  she  put  out  her  hand  to  stroke  him,  when  in 
a  brown  flash  he  went,  and  his  tail  hung  outside  a  cranny 
and  twitched  and  was  gone. 

"I  wish  he  would  have  stayed!"  cried  she,  woe  in 
her  grey  eyes  as  Peter  saw,  looking  down  at  the  beautiful, 
upturned  face.  "We  must  get  on,"  he  answered,  for 
he  saw  that  her  cheeks  were  white  as  her  forehead  and 
only  her  lips  retained  their  colour.  She  rose  obediently 
and  they  hurried  out  into  the  mist. 

Four  times  they  turned  their  backs  on  the  gorge  and 
returned  to  it  again,  thrashing  their  way  through  the 
bracken,  having  unconsciously  moved  in  a  circle,  but  on 
the  fifth  attempt  they  found  the  open  moor.  He  was 
loving  her  more  than  ever.  What  a  comrade  she  was! 
Laughing  although  soaked  to  the  skin,  and  even  stopping 
to  dig  up  groundnuts ;  which  she  recognised  by  the  white 
circle  of  flowers  on  the  single  stem,  and  pointed  out  to 
him  joyously ! 

They  had  three  miles  to  go  across  wild  country,  follow- 
ing cart-tracks  and  making  short  cuts  through  the  whins 
and  over  desolate  stretches  of  tussocky  heathland  where 
they  took  the  risk  of  encountering  bog.  The  mist  ap- 
peared again  and  again  to  be  on  the  point  of  lifting.  It 
swirled  by ;  it  vanished  before  them,  giving  a  glimpse  of 
the  track  ahead ;  it  wrapped  itself  about  their  shoulders, 
settling  close  as  a  cloak,  muffling  them  in  a  sheet  of 
vapour  from  head  to  foot  so  that  they  felt  cut  off  from 
each  other  and  from  the  world;  and  then  it  would 
brighten  from  grey  to  whiteness  with  a  promise  of  sun- 
shine. Once  it  lifted  above  the  outstretched  necks  of  a 
noble  string  of  geese,  waddling  across  the  path  with  gap- 
ing bills.  The  sullen  bark  of  a  watchdog  came  from  near 
by,  where  farm  buildings  gloomed  and  suddenly  disap- 
peared. "  Treswallock ! "  said  Peter,  bending  over  the 
map.  He  was  wrong,  and  they  found  themselves  climb- 


TRANSFORMATION  317 

ing  Alex  Tor,  a  mile  too  far  to  the  left.  Then,  turning 
to  the  right  across  Treswallock  Downs,  they  overshot  the 
mark  again  and  lost  themselves  in  avoiding  a  herd  of 
bullocks  which  thundered  past  in  the  greyness,  and  came 
at  last  to  Irishes  where  they  were  directed  back  to  the 
brow  of  the  hill.  As  they  reached  it,  the  sunlight  de- 
scended in  flashing  splendour,  and  there  below  them  lay 
Candra  Farm,  its  front  garden  aflame  with  yellow  roses 
and  gay  fuchsias,  with  a  white  climbing  passion-flower 
over  the  porch  and  a  side  garden  radiant  with  damask 
roses  and  sweet,  old-fashioned  flowers ;  and  at  the  foot  of 
the  rise  beyond  it  moved  a  gentle  brook.  So  the  way  was 
clear  and  they  marched  on  into  the  heart  of  the  moor. 

From  the  next  rise  King  Arthur's  Down  lay  out- 
stretched, broad  and  flat,  and  in  places  marshy,  and 
beyond  rose  Hawkstor  and  Garrow  Tor.  Far  away  on 
the  left  the  head  of  Roughtor  frowned :  hills  ringed  the 
plain,  with  the  mist  still  caught  from  their  craggy  sum- 
mits and  the  sunshine  hiding  itself  again  behind  them. 
Peter  and  Cynthia  walked  straight  on,  passing  a  tumulus, 
towards  a  long  low  mound  in  the  very  centre  of  the  green 
expanse,  a  line  of  darker  colour  in  the  distance,  from 
which  an  edging  of  white  stones  seemed  to  project.  "It 
must  be  King  Arthur's  Hall!"  said  Cynthia,  as  they 
approached  it,  and  Peter  spelled  out  from  a  rain-washed 
slip  of  paper  the  information  he  had  copied  from  an  old 
Parish  Guide  belonging  to  Mrs.  Trerice.  ' '  Supposed  to 
have  been  a  hunting-hall ;  undoubtedly  was  once  roofed 
over.  Has  been  used  of  late  years  as  a  shelter  for  cattle. ' ' 

"Mrs.  Trerice  said  that  was  wrong." 

"What  was  wrong?" 

"She  said  the  place  filled  with  water  in  winter,  and 
until  the  farmer  had  it  drained  cattle  used  to  get 
drowned  there  sometimes." 

Now  they  climbed  the  side  of  the  apparent  mound 
and  looked  down  into  a  hollowed  place  about  thirty 
feet  by  eighteen,  with  a  soft  bottom  and  a  pool  of  water 
at  one  end.  The  slabs  of  stone  they  had  seen  formed 
supports  to  the  sides  and  might  have  once  held  up  a 
light  plank-roofing. 


318  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

"How  King  Arthur  avoided  being  swamped  out  every 
time  it  rained,  I  can 't  imagine, ' '  was  Cynthia 's  practical 
comment.  "I  really  cannot  believe  that  his  hunting- 
parties  ever  dined  here." 

' '  A  stone  floor  and  very  elaborate  roof  would  do  won- 
ders," said  Peter  in  a  doubtful  tone. 

"I  expect  it  was  a  swimming-pool!"  laughed  Cynthia. 

"What  makes  you  call  it  swimming-pool  instead  of 
swimming-bath?"  asked  Peter,  curiously.  "Isn't  that 
American  ? ' '  They  had  turned  away  from  the  Hall  and 
set  their  faces  in  the  direction  of  home. 

Now  Cynthia's  Welsh  friends  had  testified  to  her 
power  of  being  cattish  in  a  nice  way,  which  included  the 
faculty,  in  certain  humours,  of  teasing;  and  it  is  a  fact 
that  a  thoroughly  wet  girl  is  not  usually  a  normal  girl. 
She  may  be  cross,  or  she  may  be  hilarious,  or  she  may 
be  depressed,  but  certainly  she  will  be  exposed  to  the 
influence  of  moods.  Cynthia,  for  no  reason  at  all, 
replied  archly, ' '  Somebody  taught  me, ' '  and  immediately 
regretted  it;  then  Peter's  astonished  look  amused  her 
so  much  that  instead  of  apologising  she  teased  on — very 
daintily  and  not  in  the  least  in  the  style  of  Phyllis  Peto, 
but  still  in  a  manner  foreign  to  his  experience  of  her. 
She  did  not  coquet  with  his  jealousy ;  there  was  no  depth 
in  her  play,  which  was  entirely  a  matter  of  words.  She 
was  neither  rude  nor  tactless;  yet  the  novelty  startled 
Peter.  He  was  tired,  and  he  answered  clumsily;  and 
so  all  of  a  sudden  uprose  a  flare  of  quarrel  beginning  with 
"I  will!"  and  "You  won't!"  and  mounting  rapidly  to 
"tragic  airs  and  ' '  Please  let  me  walk  by  myself,  Peter ! ' ' 

At  first  she  meant  only  half  of  what  she  said,  and  he 
ipepented  all  he  said.  They  wound  up  with  silence  and 
-despair  in  their  hearts  and  a  kind  of  bitterness  which  did 
not  seem  real  except  when  directed  against  themselves. 
And  yet  they  tramped  on  obstinately,  with  chins  held 
high;  and  two  broad  lines  marred  Cynthia's  forehead 
and  Peter's  frown  brought  two  upright  furrows  above 
his  nose.  Then  Cynthia  slipped  into  green  bog-water 
over  her  ankles  and  Peter  came  to  pull  her  out ;  suddenly 
she  laughed  with  a  tremor  of  tears  in  her  voice  and  when 


TRANSFORMATION  319 

he  had  helped  her  to  firm  ground  clung  to  him  with  her 
head  hent  low  and  by  the  droop  of  her  neck  he  knew 
she  was  ashamed.  He  wished  to  drop  at  her  feet,  but 
she  held  to  him  and  for  one  moment  they  were  clasped 
like  wrestlers,  he  wondering  at  her  supple  strength ;  and 
then  they  fell  apart,  laughing  hysterically  and  under- 
standing each  other.  "My  dear!"  "My  dear!"  They 
stood  upright,  lips  on  lips. 


XIII 

ON  reaching  home  they  found  a  scribbled  note  from 
Shaun,  of  the  most  disquieting  nature,  containing  a  split 
infinitive  and  two  errors  in  punctuation.  He  referred 
to  Providence  as  a  Character,  himself  as  a  poor  ass,  and 
apostrophised  the  misfortune  of  having  to  trust  to  two 
such  broken  reeds.  Sir  Everard  is  on  your  track, 
through  young  Alan.  I  found  him  (the  latter)  nosing  at 
Waterloo.  Qu'il  nose!  They  are  searching,  but  they 
must  not  find.  Remember  must  not!  I  will  take  all 
blame.  If  they  should  unexpectedly  arrive  do  not  fail  to 
let  them  damn  me  utterly.  You  will  not  know  what  has 
happened  so  keep  a  still  tongue  and  listen.  I  am  not 
done.  I  will  turn  defeat  to  victory!  Be  prepared  to 
glide  away.  Keep  your  tents  folded,  and  buy  mttk  choco- 
late, and  set  a  skin-clad  watcher  peering  from  the  rocks 
of  Roughtor! 

Your  old,  desperate 

Shaun. 

Afterthought:  Pat  Gwenneth  on  the  head.  My  re- 
spects to  Mrs.  Trerice  and  tell  Trerice  I  have  inquired 
what  price  the  brindled  sow  did  fetch. 

"Brindled  sow!"  exclaimed  Peter.  "Trerice  hasn't 
a  brindled  sow!  I  wish  he  would  think  a  bit  more  of 
what  you  are  going  through  and  write  a  decent  letter  for 
once."  He  was  almost  shaken  in  his  allegiance, — pre- 
cisely the  effect  which  Shaun  had  intended. 

Cynthia  showed  deeper  insight.  She  shook  her  head, 
saying,  "He's  clever.  He  isn't  really  careless."  But 
then  and  there,  in  her  sopping  wet  clothes,  she  sat  down 
and  wrote  to  Shaun  asking  him  to  let  her  go  straight  to 
her  mother  or  else  write  to  her  father.  Peter  signed  the 

320 


TRANSFORMATION  321 

letter  too,  after  he  had  added  in  a  postscript,  "It  would 
be  I  who  would  see  Sir  Everard,  of  course."  Mr.  Trerice, 
who  happened  to  be  going  to  the  station,  undertook  to 
post  it.  "  'Twill  go  off  come  by,"  he  said,  ''not  to-day 
likely,  but  fust  train  to-morrow.  You  shouldn  't  sit  about 
in  they  wet  things  of  yourn,  miss,  if  you'll  forgive  me 
saying  so.  Gwen  was  terrible  slight  with  a  cold  she 
caught  that  way."  And  Mrs.  Trerice,  coming  in  from 
the  fowl-run,  rushed  Cynthia  off  to  bed. 

Next  morning  troubles  seemed  small  things,  unworthy 
of  attention  in  a  sunny  world.  They  settled  to  take  no 
decisive  step  until  they  had  heard  from  Shaun,  and  after 
helping  Mrs.  Trerice  and  Gwenneth,  who  was  on  holiday, 
to  fork  over  the  ground  where  the  new  potatoes  had  been 
dug,  they  thought  they  would  have  a  swim  in  Dozmary. 
The  walk  was  a  hot  one  under  a  fair,  cloudless  sky  of 
deep  and  tender  blue.  The  moor  faded  serene  into  hazy 
distances;  underfoot,  the  grass  was  emerald-green  after 
yesterday 's  rain ;  larks  were  carolling,  filling  the  air  with 
song  and  the  lovers'  hearts  with  lightness. 

They  secured  the  boat,  by  arrangement  with  the  people 
of  the  cottage  which  faced  the  lake.  Peter  put  in  the 
bundle  of  towels  and  handed  the  girl  aboard ;  as  he  did 
so,  observing  her  immaculate  white  shoes.  ' '  She  wouldn  't 
let  you  clean  them,  would  she?"  he  asked,  referring  to 
Mrs.  Trerice  of  course,  and  Cynthia  had  to  acknowledge 
no,  but  she  said  that  she  had  done  two  pairs  before  Mrs. 
Trerice  detected  her.  "They  aren't  so  good!"  said 
rueful  Cynthia.  Then  the  couple  rowed  out  to  the  centre 
of  wide  Dozmary  where  the  water  was  clear  and  very 
deep.  Looking  over  they  could  see  no  bottom,  and  they 
shipped  their  oars,  and  managed  to  undress,  with  their 
backs  to  each  other;  and  when  they  turned,  the  girl 
was  slim  in  dark  blue  and  Peter  mighty  in  a  brown 
costume.  Cynthia  was  feeling  shy  in  hers,  which  was 
scantier  than  she  had  worn  before;  she  had  chosen  it 
because  it  was  easy  to  carry. 

"Can  you  dive?"  asked  Peter. 

' '  Can 't  I ! "  cried  Cynthia,  joining  finger  tips  on  high 
and  taking  an  expert  header.  She  rose,  swam  a  few 


322  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

strokes  with  effortless  grace,  and  turned  on  her  back. 
"It's  cold!"  she  said,  but  Peter  was  in  mid-air.  "Is 
anyone  about?"  she  inquired  anxiously  when  his  head 
appeared  above  water.  ' '  I  didn  't  dare  to  look. ' ' 

"Not  a  soul,"  he  gasped.  "Besides,  what  does  it 
matter?  I  say,  you  can  swim  well,  Star!" 

"Don't  you  think  it's  awfully  impudent  of  us  to  bathe 
in  King  Arthur's  pool?"  exclaimed  Cynthia.  "Won't 
the  Lady  of  the  Lake  be  angry  with  us  ? " 

' '  She 's  made  the  water  cold  enough ! ' '  said  Peter. 

He  ordered  a  race,  gave  her  too  long  a  start  and  lost. 
"Out  quick,  now!  Into  the  boat,  darling!" 

"Yes,  but  how?"  wailed  Cynthia,  clinging  to  the 
thwart  and  trying  to  raise  herself  high  enough  to  vault 
over  the  side. 

"Try  the  stern,"  said  Peter,  who  was  already  across 
it,  and  he  lent  her  a  hand  and  helped  her  to  clamber  in 
and  swathed  her  in  an  enormous  towel. 

As  he  had  expected  they  were  fully  dressed  before  they 
saw  the  people  of  the  house  again,  and  then  having 
made  the  boat  fast  and  thanked  them,  they  set  out, 
munching  sandwiches.  They  rested  not  far  from  the 
pool,  looking  up  to  the  heights  of  Browngelly.  Peter  sat 
down  and  drew  off  his  coat  to  serve  as  a  pillow,  for  he 
was  drowsy.  Cynthia,  too,  made  preparations  for  repose 
and  coolness.  She  slipped  off  shoes  and  stockings,  rolled 
up  her  sleeves  to  the  shoulders  and,  elbows  upflung,  sank 
back  in  the  long,  dry  grass,  clasping  her  naked  arms  be- 
hind her  head.  The  sun  beat  down  with  a  savage  glare 
of  heat.  Grasshoppers  chirped.  The  air  was  still;  and 
out  of  sight  on  the  moor  cattle  were  lowing. 

"I'm  so  happy  I  can't  get  to  sleep,"  said  Peter,  turn- 
ing over  to  the  other  side  to  look  at  his  young  wife. 

Cynthia  raised  her  face  all  flushed  with  slumber,  like  a 
child  awaked,  and  began  to  rub  her  blinking  eyes.  She 
sat  up. 

"  I  '11  talk  to  you, ' '  she  said  teasingly, ' '  and  then  you  '11 
have  no  difficulty!" 

"Where  did  you  learn  to  swim,  you  clever  girl?  Tell 
me  that." 


TRANSFORMATION  323 

"We  had  a  teacher  at  school — Joyce's  school,  you 
know.  She  was  a  Swede.  I  learnt  from  her.  I  can't 
swim  much." 

They  were  within  sight  of  the  road  which  led  to  the 
pool  and  from  the  distance  came  the  humming  of  a  motor. 
Peter  also  was  sitting  up,  as  he  said:  "You  jolly  well 
can!  I  remember  Joyce  telling  me  and  I  thought  she 
was  piling  it  on.  Why  on  earth  didn't  you  bathe  with 
Alan  and  me  at  Tintagel,  when  we  asked  you?" 

The  purring  sound  was  nearer.  Cynthia  sank  back 
and  answered,  "I  should  have,  if  Mother  would  have  let 
me.  But  I'm  nothing  out  of  the  ordinary,  Peter!  You 
can't  have  seen  a  good  girl  swimmer  before,  or  you 
wouldn  't  be  surprised  at  me.  I  '11  tell  you  about  the  best 
I  ever  met,  and  then  you'll  understand  I'm  nothing  at 
all !  I  can,  because  I  wrote  about  her  to  Shaun  and  tried 
to  make  the  description  literary."  , 

"Go  ahead!"  said  Peter,  lazily.  He  lay  back  re- 
cumbent, an  instant  before  the  car  whirred  over  the  hill. 
They  were  stretched  invisible  as  it  passed  by. 

"You  must  not  interrupt  now,  please!"  began  Cyn- 
thia. "I  call  her 

THE  LADY  OP  FOWEY, 

where  we  were  yachting.  She  was  a  tallish  girl,  who  was 
married,  I  think,  for  I  saw  a  man  walking  with  her  once 
— lanky  and  happy  with  a  clever  face ;  altogether  rather 
nice — who  was  behaving  like  a  husband.  She  was  about 
my  age,  good-looking,  and  not  very  well  dressed  when  I 
met  them  out.  I  daresay  she  had  made  her  skirt  herself. 
I  only  got  a  glimpse  of  her,  as  they  passed  me  quickly, 
coming  round  a  corner,  and  she  had  a  sunbonnet  on. 

"This  girl  was  staying  at  one  of  those  nice  houses  on 
the  cliff;  one  which  had  steps  at  the  end  of  its  garden 
down  the  rocks  to  a  diving-board  projecting  at  a  con- 
siderable height  above  the  water  from  a  kind  of  stage, 
and  on  to  a  concrete  landing-platform  at  the  bottom. 
Now  Alan  and  I  used  to  fish  in  the  early  mornings  from 
a  boat  which  we  sculled  along  the  shore,  and  we  were  out 


324  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

one  day  just  after  sunrise,  and  saw  her  come  in  a  long 
cloak  and  barefoot  through  the  wicket  gate  at  the  top, 
and  spring  headlong  down  those  steps  as  though  she 
wanted  to  break  her  neck;  but  she  was  so  sure-footed 
she  arrived  safe  at  the  diving-stage,  and  then  she  threw 
off  her  cloak  and  stood  with  only  a  short  scarlet  costume 
on.  I  did  envy  her  when  she  ran  out  on  to  the  plank, 
gave  a  tremendous  leap  into  the  air,  turned  a  somersault 
gracefully  and  easily,  her  body  revolving  upon  her 
shoulders  and  arms  as  on  a  pivot,  and  with  another  half 
turn  shot  headforemost  into  the  water  without  a  splash. 
And  she  swam,  oh  so  powerfully!  She  was  wearing  a 
scarlet  cloth  knotted  over  her  hair,  which  was  yellow, 
much  fairer  than  mine  and  very  curly.  We  could  see  the 
scarlet,  bobbing  thing,  one  white  arm  after  the  other 
rising  beside  it,  pass  far  into  the  rough  sea  beyond  the 
harbour  mouth.  What  do  you  think  of  my  narrative 
style,  Peter? 

"We  saw  her  several  mornings  running,  and  one  day 
when  she  swam  close  1  called  her,  inviting  her  to  dive 
from  our  boat.  She  thanked  me  and  swung  herself  in  as 
lightly  as  possible  without  looking  at  Alan's  hand  out- 
stretched to  help  her.  Not  like  me  just  now!  Up  she 
came  over  the  side  and,  oh  Peter,  she  was  beautiful !  I 
did  envy  her  again.  She  had  sweet,  brown  eyes  and  a 
very  candid,  attractive  face,  and  she  was  absolutely 
perfectly  made,  muscular  as  anything,  but  with  lovely 
slidey  slippery  muscle  that  didn  't  cause  her  to  look  big  or 
ungraceful.  Her  arms  were  as  rounded  and  smooth  as  a 
statue's,  and  her  legs  and  feet  perfect  too,  and  her  skin 
snowy  white,  and  all  her  movements  easy  and  supple. 
She  could  be  deliberate  or  ever  so  swift  and  it  was 
equally  beautiful  to  watch. 

' '  She  sprang  on  the  bow  seat,  and  balanced  herself  on 
her  toes,  raising  her  wet,  gleaming  arms;  I  noticed  she 
looked  slender,  standing  up:  then  she  leapt  backwards 
and  curved  herself  in  the  air,  how  shall  I  say?  like  a 
whip-lash,  it  was  so  quick,  and  went  in  headforemost, 
without  a  splash.  You  know  how  clear  the  water  is  at 
Fowey.  We  looked  over  and  saw  her  dart  underneath 


TRANSFORMATION  325 

our  boat  and  rise  on  the  other  side  with  her  hands  in 
front  of  her.  When  I  said  something  in  praise  of  her 
swimming  she  just  laughed  and  said  she'd  had  a  lot  of 
practice;  and  then  up  went  her  white  heels  again  and 
down  she  shot  to  the  bottom,  tremendously  far  under. 
We  could  see  her  clinging  there  to  a  rock,  head  down- 
ward, legs  above  her;  she  relaxed  her  hold  and  slipping 
over  on  her  back  swam  slowly  up  towards  the  surface. 
Peter,  she  was  as  at  home  in  the  water  as  a  fish !  She 
could  shoot  in  any  direction  under  water  with  her  hands 
behind  her  back,  and  she  turned  somersaults  with  her 
knees  up  to  her  chin,  swimming  with  her  hands  with 
arms  outstretched,  and  she  extended  her  limbs  and 
turned  more  somersaults  head  over  heels  and  heels  over 
head,  and  did  what  they  call  the  'rolling  log,'  floating 
and  revolving  herself  on  her  own  axis  rapidly  and  easily, 
and  then  she  came  up  to  take  breath.  'Good-bye,'  she 
said.  'Thank  you  so  much  for  letting  me  dive.'  And 
off  she  swam,  arm  after  arm  over  her  head,  at  a  tre- 
mendous speed.  You  wouldn't  think  much  of  me  if 
you'd  seen  her,  Peter,  really!" 

The  car  had  just  passed  back  and  Cynthia  sat  up  to 
look  after  it. 

"Wasn't  she  a  professional?"  asked  Peter.  "It's  a 
ripping  description  of  yours. ' ' 

' '  She  was  a  lady.    She  seemed  awfully  nice. ' ' 

She  failed  however  to  retain  Peter's  interest.  He 
preferred  to  play  with  his  wife's  hair,  which  was  hang- 
ing down  her  back  to  dry.  ' '  It 's  pretty ! "  he  murmured 
admiringly.  "You  ought  always  to  wear  it  like  that, 
Star." 

"Oh,  silly,  silly  Peter,"  laughed  Cynthia,  bright- 
cheeked,  and  then  he  kissed  her  and  they  were  very 
youthful  and  happy  and  played  with  a  grasshopper  who 
came  to  rebuke  them.  Oh,  the  joyful  hours! 

Soon,  in  a  moment  it  seemed,  the  time  was  come  to 
start  home.  The  shadows  were  beginning  to  lengthen 
upon  Minzies  Downs.  Reluctantly  they  dragged  their 
footsteps  from  the  enchanted  spot.  ' '  What  a  holiday ! ' ' 
sighed  Peter.  "You  took  it  for  granted  that  I  knew 


326  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

Fowey,  but  I  Ve  hardly  been  away  from  London  for  years 
and  years." 

She  stroked  his  arm  in  sympathy.    "Poor  Peter!" 

And  then  they  came  to  Jamaica  Inn  and  Cynthia  asked 
her  kind  husband  to  buy  her  a  glass  of  lemonade.  Peter 
in  a  large  spirit  of  generosity  offered  her  a  barrelful,  and 
they  entered  the  parlour  laughing.  The  girl  who  came 
to  take  their  order  exclaimed  when  she  saw  them,  "Did 
you  meet  the  gentleman,  sir?"  The  laughter  died  on 
their  lips. 

' '  What  gentleman  ? ' '  demanded  Peter. 

' '  The  gentleman  in  the  motor,  mum, ' '  the  girl  replied 
to  Cynthia's  frightened,  questioning  gaze. 

"I  thought  I  heard  a  car  go  by.  Was  he  driving 
himself?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  he  must  have  passed  close  to,  but  I  didn't 
notice  him.  Did  you,  Cynthia?" 

' '  I  was  telling  you  about  the  Lady  of  Powey. ' '  Cyn- 
thia had  expected  to  hear  a  hoarse  croak,  but  her  voice 
was  as  silvery  as  ever.  Almost  for  the  first  time  in  her 
life  she  heard  it  self-consciously,  and  realised  that  it  was 
beautiful. 

"Luckily  I  knew  you  were  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Middleton 
and  I  told  him  you  had  gone  down  to  the  Pool,  for  John 
had  seen  you  go  by. ' ' 

"Who  was  he,  and  what  did  he  want?"  asked  Peter. 
"Was  he  a  youngish,  clean-shaven  chap  with  sandy 
hair?" 

"Shaun  isn't  exactly  youngish,"  said  Cynthia  under 
her  breath,  though  she  knew  all  the  time  it  was  not  Shaun. 

"He  didn't  tell  his  name,  sir,"  explained  the  girl. 
"He  was  a  stranger  to  me;  an  old  gentleman  with  big 
eyebrows,  not  so  old  perhaps,  but  getting  on  in  years. 
He  was  tall  and  spare  and  had  a  quiet  commanding  sort 
of  way  with  him  and  took  an  interest  in  the  cases  of 
stuffed  trout  in  the  hall." 

"Yes,  but  what  did  he  want  with  us?"  persisted  Peter. 

The  girl  seemed  surprised.  "I  can't  tell,  sir,  I'm 
sure!  But  he  wanted  to  know  where  you  was  staying 


TRANSFORMATION  327 

and  I  told  him  Radgells  and  I  hope  I  did  right,  mum. 
He  looked  such  a  gentleman,  sir,  and  I'm  sure  I  didn't 
mean  no  'arm ! ' ' 

"No,  no,  of  course!"  said  Peter,  as  heartily  as  he 
could.  ' '  Is  he  driving  round  to  Roughtor  Bridge,  do  you 
suppose  ? ' ' 

"He  didn't  say,  sir.  I  didn't  see  him  when  he  came 
back." 

"We'd  better  get  home  at  once,"  said  Peter  to  Cyn- 
thia, ' ' and  wait  for  him.  No  time  for  ginger  beer ! "  "I 
had  to  get  you  out  of  it, ' '  he  went  on  as  soon  as  they  were 
in  the  open  air,  where  the  sunshine  came  as  a  surprise 
and  its  friendly  warmth  astonished  them  because  it  was 
unchanged.  "Your  eyes  are  like  two  saucers,  darling! 
They  are  blue-grey  like  the  sea. ' ' 

They  got  into  the  little  copse  below  Bolventor  and  sat 
down  to  talk  it  over.  Cynthia  was  trembling. 

"That  swimming  girl  may  have  changed  the  whole  of 
our  lives!"  she  said.  "It  would  have  been  awful  if 
Dad  had  caught  us,  all  unprepared  as  we  were. ' ' 

"Are  we  going  to  meet  him,  that's  the  point,"  said 
Peter.  "We  both  wanted  to,  yesterday." 

"  It 's  quite  different,  his  catching  us,  from  my  writing 
or  going  to  Mother,  isn't  it,  dear?" 

She  was  pitifully  afraid  and  anxious  to  convince  her- 
self, he  could  see.  Nor  did  he  himself  feel  much  bolder. 
It  certainly  was  awkward  that  they  had  heard  so  little 
news  from  Shaun,  who  would  only  get  their  letter  in  the 
evening.  Suddenly  Peter  remembered  that  they  did  not 
know  where  Sir  Everard  was  staying,  and  he  ran  back  to 
inquire  whether  the  gentleman  had  left  an  address.  He 
had  not,  but  the  girl  had  recognised  the  car  as  a  hire-car 
from  the  King's  Arms  at  Camelford,  and  with  this  in- 
formation Peter  hastened  back  to  Cynthia. 

Finally  they  decided  to  hurry  to  Radgells  and,  after 
assuring  themselves  by  means  of  a  detour  that  no  car  was 
waiting  at  Roughtor  Bridge,  to  snatch  a  meal  and  secure 
a  respite  by  telling  Mrs.  Trerice  they  would  be  out  until 
after  midnight.  The  worst  of  it  was  that  Sir  Everard, 
having  had  nearly  an  hour's  start,  would  be  at  Camel- 


328  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

ford  by  this  time,  and  if  he  went  straight  on  to  Radgells 
he  might  arrive  before  them,  in  which  case  they  would 
be  compelled  to  lurk  and  watch  him  off  the  premises. 
Mrs.  Trerice  would  offer  him  tea  no  doubt,  which  he 
might  or  might  not  accept ;  Cynthia  thought  it  far  more 
likely  that  he  would  have  a  cup  of  tea  at  the  King's 
Arms  before  going  on. 

Fear  lent  them  wings.  They  covered  four  miles  in 
five  and  thirty  minutes  and  won  the  race.  Hardly  had 
they  reached  the  watch-tower  of  Roughtor,  bearing  with 
them  their  tea  and  supper,  both  in  one,  with  a  jug  of 
cider,  than  a  car  rushed  down  the  straight  road  to 
Roughtor  Bridge,  scattering  the  cattle  and  ponies  which 
were  watering  at  the  ford.  A  figure  emerged  from  the 
tonneau,  and  appeared  to  give  instructions  to  the 
chauffeur.  "Can  it  be  Daddy?"  Cynthia  whispered  as 
though  the  small,  black  speck  might  overhear. 

Peter's  voice  sounded  extraordinarily  loud.  "He  was 
driving  himself  this  morning."  He  lowered  his  tone  to 
a  murmur.  "I  believe  that's  a  bigger  car." 

"He's  coming  across  the  bridge.  How  long  will  it  be 
before  we  can  be  sure  ? ' ' 

' '  A  quarter  of  an  hour  perhaps, ' '  said  Peter,  ' '  unless 
you  are  able  to  recognise  his  walk  a  very  long  way 
off." 

"There  goes  the  car!"  exclaimed  Cynthia,  clutching 
him.  But  it  only  backed  and  turned  and  stood  waiting. 
Peter  felt  how  she  began  to  tremble. 

"We  won't  go  down,"  he  said  comfortingly,  having 
been  on  the  point  of  proposing  to  go,  in  obedience  to 
the  natural  impulse  which  leads  a  man  to  confront  a 
visible  danger.  He  had  little  doubt  that  it  was  Sir 
Everard. 

"It  might  be  Shaun,"  said  Cynthia.  "It  might. 
Even  though  the  car's  still  there " 

"Shaun!" 

"It  might  be." 

Peter  had  not  considered  the  possibility  and  he  stared 
at  the  small  figure  slowly  approaching  across  the  moor, 
until  it  danced  before  his  eyes.  Cynthia's  sight  was  finer 


TRANSFORMATION  329 

than  his  and  she  cried  out  "It  isn't  Shaun,"  when  the 
distance  had  been  half  covered.  "I  believe  .  .  .  I  think 
it's  Alan,"  she  said  a  moment  later  in  a  tone  of  sheer 
wrath,  which  caused  Peter,  although  he  was  a  peaceable 
individual,  suddenly  to  feel  pugnacious. 

"Oh,  I  say,  the  muscle  on  your  arm!"  The  girl's 
hand  which  had  been  gripping  it  unconsciously  withdrew 
startled,  and  she  turned  wide  eyes  on  him. 

She  was  peeping  round  the  corner  of  rock.  She  held 
her  breath,  crouching  stiff.  "It's  Father!"  she  said, 
relaxing,  and  again  she  spoke  in  a  whisper,  shaken  by 
something  between  a  sigh  and  a  sob. 

"Yes."  Peter,  too,  was  intent  on  the  plain  and  the 
solitary  approaching  figure.  It  was  Sir  Everard  without 
a  doubt,  and  he  would  pass  directly  below  them,  as  he 
was  bearing  close  in  under  the  head  of  Roughtor,  having 
left  the  track. 

' '  Will  he  come  up  ? "  asked  Cynthia. 

"He  must  have  been  told  to  go  round.  He  must. 
Yes,  there  he  turns!  He's  found  the  going  too  rough 
and  is  striking  outward.  By  Jove!  Here's  Trerice!" 

The  short  broad  form  of  Mr.  Trerice,  in  his  best 
clothes,  with  Gwenneth  frolicking  about  him,  had  come 
into  sight  round  the  Tor.  High  above,  hasty  whispers 
were  exchanged.  "Can  he  guess  where  we  are,  dar- 
ling?" "No,  I  only  said  we  were  going  out  to  see  the 
moon  rise."  "Starry,  there  isn't  any  moon  to-night." 
"That  doesn't  matter,  surely!"  "Yes,  it  does.  They 
may  think  we  11  find  out  our  mistake  and  come  in  early. ' ' 
..."  No,  no.  Daddy  won 't  wait  so  long,  I  'm  sure.  The 
sun  hasn't  set  yet." 

The  sun  was  descending  magnificently  upon  the  west- 
ern hills,  flooding  the  world  with  soft  light;  and  in  the 
foreground  of  the  landscape  Mr.  Trerice  and  Sir  Everard 
steadily  approached  one  another.  Would  they  pass? 
No,  they  stopped,  and  in  the  still  air  faint  sounds  of 
conversation  mounted  to  the  watchers  on  the  crag.  Sir 
Everard  had  hailed  Trerice:  he  stayed  talking  a  long 
time  and  Gwenneth  crept  close  and  stood  at  gaze.  Now 
Sir  Everard  took  something  from  his  pocket,  and 


330  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

Trerice's  hand  went  up  in  salutation  towards  the  brim 
of  his  hat.  Sir  Everard  was  turning  back.  He  swung 
round  on  his  heel,  and  Trerice  and  Gwenneth  also 
turned,  retracing  their  steps,  and  disappeared  soon  in  the 
direction  of  Radgells. 

When  the  motor-car  had  vanished  over  Poldue,  Peter 
and  Cynthia  sat  up  and  looked  at  each  other  with  set 
and  blanched  faces.  Now  that  the  danger  was  over 
for  the  time,  they  became  aware  of  the  full  weight  of 
their  responsibility  and  misliked  it  sadly.  .  .  .  But  before 
they  stole  back  under  a  deep  and  starry  sky  they  had 
decided,  from  loyalty  to  Shaun,  to  flee  upon  the  morrow. 
The  scents  of  the  garden  crowded  thick  upon  them  like 
memories;  the  latch  clicked  and  they  moved  out  of  the 
dark  and  solemn  mystery  of  the  -night  and  entered  the 
blacker,  narrower  mystery  of  the  house.  They  tiptoed 
into  their  sitting-room.  Peter  struck  a  match,  trem- 
bling; but  set  a  flame  to  the  candle  with  steady  fingers, 
for  he  had  caught  sight  of  what  was  to  be  feared. 

In  the  centre  of  the  striped  tablecloth  lay  a  small, 
white  card,  on  the  back  of  which  were  scrawled  in  an  un- 
formed hand  the  following  words,  which  Cynthia  read 
looking  over  Peter's  shoulder — This  gentellman  came 
when  you  were  out.  He  is  at  the  King's  Arms.  She 
happened  to  glance  up  at  the  mirror  above  the  mantel- 
piece and  saw  ghostly  therein  her  grave  and  tender 
beauty  with  Peter's  dark  head  beside,  and  the  thought 
crossed  her  mind,  "This  is  the  end  of  my  youth."  She 
was  too  young  to  know  that  it  was  nothing  more  than 
the  end  of  her  honeymoon. 


XIV 

THEY  were  up  by  six  o'clock,  resolved  to  abandon  their 
heavy  baggage  to  the  enemy  and  to  flee  to  some  town 
from  which  they  could  keep  him  under  observation  while 
they  communicated  with  Shaun,  but  they  had  been  dis- 
cussing morals  and  'what  is  best  for  you,  darling'  and 
therefore  were  still  without  a  definite  plan,  except  that 
they  would  tell  Mrs.  Trerice  they  were  going  on  tramp 
for  a  short  time.  Luckily  the  day,  though  blusterous, 
was  fine  and  warm. 

With  large  natural  genius  they  bustled  Mrs.  Trerice 
so  that  she  had  not  time  to  ask  about  the  strange  gentle- 
man, and  what  she  should  say  to  him  if  he  called  again ; 
and  Trerice  was  out  at  work  when  they  came  down. 
They  were  clever  enough  to  guess  that  Sir  Everard  had 
said  little  in  order  that  he  might  not  afterwards  seem 
to  have  made  a  secret  of  the  relationship.  There  was  in 
the  mind  of  Mrs.  Trerice  no  suspicion  that  his  arrival 
accounted  for  the  departure  of  her  guests.  Indeed  they 
escaped  without  one  mention  of  him,  by  eating  in  the 
kitchen  with  haste,  and  avoiding  the  necessity  to  enter 
the  sitting-room.  In  their  innocence  of  intrigue,  how- 
ever, they  overlooked  two  points  of  importance,  the  first 
being  that  they  would  lose  Shaun 's  reply,  which  would 
probably  have  been  posted  the  night  before,  and  the 
second,  that  Sir  Everard 's  visiting  card  was  now  re- 
posing in  Peter's  pocket.  If  the  latter  could  have  fore- 
seen their  success  in  directing  the  thoughts  of  Mrs. 
Trerice  solely  upon  matters  of  food  and  raiment,  their 
evasion  without  a  single  word  that  referred  to  the 
strange  visitor,  of  course  he  would  have  left  it  upon  the 
table.  Both  these  oversights  they  discovered  in  the 
afternoon,  near  to  the  peculiarly-balanced  pile  of  rocks 

331 


332  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

called  The  Cheesewring,  ascribed  with  equal  justice  to 
Satan  or  King  Arthur  by  the  older  dwellers  on  the  moor. 

They  had  walked  a  good  ten  miles  to  see  The  Cheese- 
wring  before  they  left  the  neighbourhood,  and  it  was 
worth  while,  they  decided ;  but  what  to  do  next  was  not 
so  easy  to  settle.  They  were  naturally  ignorant  that 
Shaun  had  wired  to  them  since  their  departure  and  that 
Sir  Everard  was  in  possession  of  the  telegram,  which  he 
had  secured  from  Mrs.  Trerice.  On  the  contrary,  they 
were  expecting  no  reply  until  next  day.  Nor  in  their 
wildest  imaginings  would  they  have  guessed  the  contents 
of  the  telegram,  nor  that  Shaun  had  written  to  Sir 
Everard  giving  him  their  address  at  Radgells.  The 
tangle  was  complete ;  and  it  had  arisen  because  they  did 
not  foresee  at  the  beginning  that  Shaun  might  learn  of 
Sir  Everard 's  arrival  at  Camelford  from  Lady  Bremner 
before  any  announcement  of  theirs  (and  they  had  sent 
none  as  yet)  could  get  to  him;  otherwise  they  would  have 
confided  in  Mrs.  Trerice,  and  taken  measures  for  the  for- 
warding of  correspondence.  For  the  time  being  they 
were  to  be  the  sport  of  chance,  but  their  object  was  still 
the  right  one,  namely  to  get  into  touch  with  Shaun  again 
at  the  earliest  possible  opportunity  without  placing 
themselves  too  far  away  from  Sir  Everard.  They  were 
as  eager  to  do  this  as  though  they  had  been  aware  of  the 
full  urgency  of  it.  Only,  how  it  was  to  be  achieved  was 
not  evident  at  first. 

There  were  two  places  where  they  could  hope  to  hear 
news  of  visitors  at  the  King's  Arms  at  Camelford,  namely 
Tintagel  and  Boscastle.  The  drivers  of  the  brakes  which 
met  daily  at  Camelford  Station  would  be  safe  to  gossip, 
they  thought,  and  if  they  themselves  took  up  their  quar- 
ters at  a  big  hotel  under  an  assumed  name  it  would  be 
surely  possible  to  find  out  when  Sir  Everard  left.  If  he 
left  before  they  heard  from  Shaun  they  were  quite  deter- 
mined to  go  at  once  to  town.  An  address  was  the  essen- 
tial meanwhile,  not  too  distant  from  Camelford,  and 
although  they  racked  their  brains,  with  the  map  spread 
out  before  them,  nowhere  appeared  more  suitable  than 
the  two  seaside  places.  The  little  fishing  town  of  Port 


TRANSFORMATION  333 

Isaac,  which  both  of  them  longed  to  see  (it  is  one  of  the 
loveliest  things  in  all  Cornwall)  was  too  distant  from 
Camelford;  St.  Breward  and  St.  Teath  were  so  small 
that  they  would  be  the  only  visitors  and  would  be  de- 
tected immediately  by  the  first  inquirer.  At  Tintagel  or 
Boscastle  they  would  not  be  altogether  secure,  for  Cyn- 
thia was  not  in  the  habit  of  being  overlooked  when  she 
stayed  at  an  hotel.  She  was  usually  the  most  stared  at, 
admired,  and  criticised  person  there,  however  quietly  she 
might  dress  herself;  which  was  one  of  the  reasons  why 
she  disliked  hotels.  She  could  not  flatter  herself  that 
her  manner  had  entirely  ceased  to  be  bridal;  she  was 
too  sensible  to  think  that  they  would  not  be  recognised 
by  the  observant  to  be  on  their  honeymoon  tour.  But 
at  the  big  caravanserais  that  are  springing  up  all  along 
the  Cornish  coast  honeymoon  couples  are  an  everyday 
sight,  and  Cynthia  was  of  the  opinion  that  this  time 
she  might  not  excite  attention.  She  would  not  dress  for 
dinner,  would  be  nobody,  arriving  as  she  did  without  a 
retinue,  without  a  fashionably  dressed  mother  and  smart 
maid.  Moreover,  she  argued,  there  were  such  a  lot  of 
nice-looking  girls  in  the  world  that  Sir  Everard  could 
not  possibly  be  sure  that  one  with  a  totally  unknown 
name  belonged  to  him. 

Peter  revolved  this  with  an  air  of  doubt.  .  .  .  "You 
aren't  exactly  nice-looking,"  he  objected,  at  length. 
' '  Especially  after  three  weeks  of  the  moor. ' '  He  added, 
"Though  I  didn't  think  that  possible." 

Cynthia  did  not  profess  misunderstanding.  It  was 
not  her  way.  Besides,  though  an  unself-conscious  girl, 
she  was  perfectly  well  aware  that  her  looks  had  im- 
proved, and  she  followed  his  confused  thoughts  clearly. 
"If  I'm  beautiful,"  she  said — "and  pretty  people  are 
often  much  more  striking " 

"They  aren't  more  striking  now,"  interrupted  Peter, 
and  this  time  he  spoke  decisively. 

"It  doesn't  make  much  difference,"  said  the  girl, 
colouring  with  happiness.  "We  must  take  some  risks 
whatever  we  do." 

"Unless  we  went  straight  back  to  London." 


334  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

"That's  been  ruled  out,"  said  she,  rather  regretfully. 
Indeed,  it  was  Peter  who  had  ruled  it  out. 

"Yes,  I  suppose  we  can't  do  that.  Tintagel's  no 
good,  don't  you  think,  Starry?" 

Cynthia  was  wistful.  "If  only  Mother  were  here 
with  him!"  she  said.  "It  would  be  such  a  good  sign, 
too.  What  did  you  say,  Peterest  ?  Oh !  I  agree.  They 
are  sure  to  search  Tintagel.  I  daresay  Daddy  is  there 
now."  Alan  was,  while  Sir  Everard  peacefully  fished 
the  Camel.  After  his  second  expedition  to  Radgells — 
fruitless  save  for  the  capture  of  Shaun's  telegram — 
Sir  Everard  felt  that  he  owed  himself  a  few  days'  fishing, 
and  also  he  wished  to  regain  his  self-control.  He  had 
been  very  angry  that  morning. 

"Boscastle  has  it,  then,  and  I'm  jolly  glad,  for  if  you 
remember  somehow  we  never  got  there  the  year  before 
last ;  at  least  you  didn  't  while  I  was  down.  It  must  be 
eighteen  miles  from  here,  and  I  don't  want  you  to  get 
over- tired ;  what  do  you  say  to  driving  from  Altarnun  ? ' ' 

"Thank  you.  Let's.  And  could  we  have  tea  at 
Altarnun?" 

"We  shall  need  it,  dear.  Altarnun  is  six  miles  away 
across  the  moor.  Can  you  manage  that?" 

"Rather!"  said  Cynthia,  who  had  plenty  of  courage 
and  never  gave  up.  She  was  equal  to  five  and  twenty 
miles  without  undue  fatigue  on  a  day  when  she  had  no 
anxieties.  "I'm  glad  I'm  not  in  white  to-day.  By  the 
map  I  see  we  shall  have  to  go  straight. ' ' 

'Going  straight'  meant  crossing  the  brooks  by  jump- 
ing or  by  wading.  Cynthia,  who  had  dressed  herself  in 
freshest  green,  the  cool  tint  of  young  leaves  in  May, 
was  secretly  anxious  lest  she  should  reach  Boscastle 
untidy. 

"  I  '11  take  care  of  you ! ' '  said  Peter,  who  was  gaining 
more  insight  into  the  feminine  mind  every  day  and  had 
already  made  surprising  progress.  And  he  did,  for  he 
carried  her  over. 

The  only  conveyance  to  be  obtained  on  that  occasion 
in  Altarnun  was  an  ancient  and  dilapidated  jingle,  in 


TRANSFORMATION  .        335 

which  they  sat  like  people  half  buried  in  a  deep  tub: 
harnessed  to  it  was  a  very  fiery  and  stalwart  pony,  of  a 
bright  roan  colour.  Cynthia  elected  to  drive  until  the 
spirit  was  out  of  this  animal;  then  she  handed  over 
the  reins  to  the  small  boy  who  had  been  sent  to  bring 
the  vehicle  home.  She  was  tired,  although  outwardly 
she  had  not  turned  a  hair,  and  was  not  sorry  to  lean 
back  and  lose  herself  in  daydreams. 

Now  Peter  found  the  urchin's  remarks  difficult  to 
understand,  for  like  many  Cornish  people  north  of  the 
moor  he  spoke  a  dialect  similar  to  that  of  Devonshire. 
Therefore  conversation  between  them  languished.  He 
thought  that  the  boy  knew  his  way,  and  that  was  enough. 
So  neither  he  nor  Cynthia  noticed  how  three  times  they 
turned  to  the  left,  at  Grigg's  Down,  where  the  Boscastle 
road  branches  from  the  road  to  Camelford,  then  at  Cross- 
ways  where  the  first  error  might  have  been  retrieved, 
and  finally  at  Collan's  Cross,  from  which  a  side  lane 
turns  towards  Slaughter  Bridge  and  the  scene  of 
Arthur's  last  battle.  The  evening  air  was  hot  and  still 
and  the  road  was  dusty.  All  unconscious,  the  fugitives 
were  being  borne  at  a  quiet  pace  towards  Camelford 
which  they  most  wished  to  avoid,  at  the  very  time  when 
the  postman  was  walking  about  that  little  market  town 
with  a  letter  in  his  pouch  from  Shaun  James  to  Sir 
Everard  Bremner,  of  the  existence  of  which  they  were  as 
unsuspicious  as  they  were  of  the  direction  in  which  they 
were  bound.  And  the  key  to  the  contents  of  that  letter 
lay  in  a  telegram  in  Sir  Everard 's  possession  and  a  note 
which  would  not  be  delivered  at  Radgells  until  the  mor- 
row, wherein  Shaun  had  slightly  amplified  the  astonish- 
ing news  contained  in  his  wire.  Their  danger  of  capture 
was  almost  as  great  as  at  Dozmary,  and  the  result  would 
probably  be  as  fatal  unless  Sir  Everard  had  time  to 
digest  Shaun 's  confession  properly  before  they  arrived — 
even  then  it  must  be  full  of  doubt. 

As  they  jogged  down  the  hill  into  Camelford,  Sir 
Everard  was  slitting  open  the  envelope  with  his  pen- 
knife, seated  in  the  lounge  of  the  King's  Arms,  which 
looks  pleasantly  over  the  tops  of  trees  across  the  deep, 


330  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

green  valley  through  which  the  Camel  flows;  and  rooks 
were  exchanging  their  opinions  in  the  elms  and  a  thrush 
was  singing  sweetly  shrill  in  the  garden  below  the  win- 
dow. He  heard  at  this  moment  the  distant  music  of  a 
band  break  out  amidst  cheering,  and  thought  little  of  it ; 
but  the  outburst  had  startled  the  occupants  of  the  jingle 
from  their  dreams.  It  came  from  the  neighbourhood  of 
the  bridge,  immediately  in  front  of  them,  and  there 
beyond  was  the  familiar  street  leading  up  the  hill,  past 
the  front  of  the  King's  Arms,  and  as  far  as  they  could 
see  the  paths  were  lined  with  people. 

"Stop!"  cried  Peter,  so  commandingly  that  the  boy 
drew  rein  with  a  jerk  and  the  roan  pony  started  side- 
ways, its  hind  hoofs  slithering  on  the  hard,  steep  road. 
' '  What  on  earth  are  we  doing  here  ? ' ' 

"And  what's  happening  here?"  asked  Cynthia,  too 
tired  to  be  much  alarmed  or  even  surprised,  but  noticing 
the  crowd. 

The  urchin  said,  "  'Tes  Camelford,  not  much  out  of 
our  way,  mister.  Father  gave  me  something  for  a  gentle- 
man as  lives  at  the  top  of  the  town.  'Tes  money,  madam, 
that  he  didn't  like  for  to  put  in  the  post.  And  he  said 
as  how  you  wouldn't  mind  payin'  a  bit  extra,  though  I 
warn 't  to  press  for  it,  like ;  seein '  as  they  was  dancing 
the  Furry  Dance  in  Camelford  to-night." 

"Of  course,  that's  the  Flora  Dance  music!"  said 
Cynthia.  "I've  heard  it  at  Helston.  Oh,  Peter,  what 
shall  we  do  now?" 

' '  I  've  a  good  mind  to  pay  your  father  with  my  walking 
stick  across  his  back,"  cried  Peter  in  a  fury.  "You'd 
better  turn  at  once." 

' '  Quicker  way  be  to  goo  aun  now,  zur ! ' '  lied  the  boy, 
relapsing  into  broad  dialect  as  a  refuge.  ' '  Didn  't  knaw 
you  was  in  zuch  a  'urry,  zur!" 

Peter  pulled  himself  up.  Could  he  afford  to  arouse 
the  kid 's  curiosity  ?  No,  he  could  not.  Besides,  the  boy 
would  drive  back  through  Camelford  and  have  as  long 
as  he  pleased  for  gossip. 

"Sorry!"  he  said  shortly.  "Get  on  then,  as  you're 
here ;  but  I  wanted  to  reach  Boscastle  by  dinner  time. ' ' 


TRANSFORMATION 


337 


Cynthia  crouched  low  as  they  fell  in  at  the  tail  of  the 
procession,  which  stretched  up  the  long  street,  steadily 
progressing  under  a  thin  cloud  of  dust  raised  by  the 
feet  of  the  jigging  dancers.  First,  there  marched  the 
band,  blaring  lustily  the  Furry  Tune,  above  all  other 
the  best  to  set  the  legs  in  motion  up  a  long,  stiff  hill; 


then  came  the  strongest  of  the  lads  and  maidens  stepping 
it,  and  a  line  of  children  all  in  white  twirling  and  shuf- 
fling, and  grown-ups  next  with  a  bright  Temperance 
banner  and  proud  to  carry  it,  while  behind  a  few  carts 
brought  up  the  rear,  moving  slowly,  blocked  in  the 
narrow  street  by  the  crowd  of  shouting  people  that 
pressed  on  the  footsteps  of  the  dancers.  For  even  the 
banner-bearers  were  tripping  to  and  fro  in  time,  and 
every  moment  more  onlookers  ran  ahead  and  joined  in, 
or  shot  out  of  the  houses  with  laughter,  pursued  by  chaff 
from  the  elders,  while  only  a  few  fell  from  the  ranks  to 
lean  panting  against  the  nearest  window-sill,  so  that 
the  throng  ahead  was  continually  augmenting  and 
progress  grew  slower  and  slower  till  the  jingle  was 
forced  to  stop,  which  happened  in  sight  of  the  King's 
Arms.  They  saw  Sir  Everard  in  the  doorway  with 
something  white  in  his  hand.  They  could  not  take  their 
eyes  off  him  and  the  proprietress,  respectful  and  respect- 


338  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

able  in  black  silk,  and  then  the  jingle  gave  a  jerk  be- 
neath them  and  they  were  moving  forward  again;  and 
in  the  hearts  of  neither  there  was  fear,  but  Cynthia  had 
a  yearning  towards  her  father  and  at  the  same  moment 
she  was  wishing  she  could  get  out  and  dance.  And 
Peter  squared  his  shoulders  and  threw  back  his  head. 
So  they  passed  by,  it  seemed  under  his  very  gaze,  but 
unseen,  and  breathed  deeply  like  swimmers  emerging 
from  a  dive,  as  they  moved  out  of  sight  and  danger. 
They  felt  a  sensation  of  coming  back  to  life. 


XV 

BY  the  time  they  reached  Boscastle  it  was  past  the  hour 
for  telegraphing,  and  fatigue  and  over-excitement  led 
them  to  commit  another  mistake.  They  wrote  to  Shaun, 
and  posted  the  letter  with  relief,  when  they  ought  to 
have  made  provision  for  the  despatch  of  a  telegram  in 
the  morning  as  soon  as  the  office  opened,  which  they 
could  easily  have  done  from  the  Wellington  Hotel.  The 
letter  that  they  had  sent  could  not  arrive  till  the 
following  evening  at  the  earliest,  and  the  clear 
day  thus  gained  for  holiday  and  peace  might  cost  them 
much. 

After  a  late  breakfast,  they  wandered  out  along  the 
cut,  with  cottages  on  either  side,  down  which  the  brook 
ran  to  the  winding  gash  between  cliffs  called  the  Har- 
bour. High  downs  rose  from  directly  behind  the  houses 
to  the  tower-topped  summit  of  Willapark  on  their  left 
hand  and  Penally  on  their  right,  while  at  their  back  was 
Forrabury  Hill,  up  which  the  road  mounted  past  the 
hotel  out  of  sight  to  the  long,  steep  street  of  Boscastle 
village.  They  kept  to  the  left  bank  of  the  stream,  and 
passed  the  old  Quay  sheltered  from  sea  winds,  and 
climbed  until  they  could  look  down  upon  the  bend  of 
the  Harbour,  where  the  water  lay  black  and  deep  at 
the  foot  of  the  rocks  below  them,  and  across  was  a  high, 
grim  breakwater,  like  the  beginning  of  a  wall  built  from 
the  opposite  cliff.  Beyond  them  was  the  mouth  of  the 
gulf,  opening  narrowly  to  the  Atlantic  Ocean  between 
precipices.  In  this  winding  gully  there  was  a  great 
depth  of  water  immediately  off  the  rocks,  but  ships  could 
only  come  in  by  warping,  and  then  could  only  reach  the 
Quay  itself  on  the  top  of  the  tide.  Moreover  the  place 
would  be  a  death-trap  in  a  swell  or  with  a  westerly  wind 

339 


340  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

blowing.  The  cliff  on  the  right-hand  side  of  its  entrance 
was  edged  fantastically  and  showed  a  dark  outline 
against  blue  sky,  while  to  the  left  in  the  far  loftier  head- 
land of  Willapark  was  a  great  chasm  into  which  the  sea 
boiled  and  murmured  incessantly.  And  for  ever  the 
foam  rippled  white  and  clinging  around  the  Meachard 
Rock  outside,  where  the  gulls  shrieked  and  circled.  They 
stood  a  long  time  watching. 

And  now  appeared  a  middle-aged  German  gentleman, 
towel-laden,  who  showed  them  steps  down  the  cliff  to  a 
cleverly  hidden  dressing  shed,  and  a  tiny  bath,  hollowed 
from  the  rock,  and  a  place  where  bolder  swimmers  might 
dive  into  the  waters  of  the  harbour.  The  rock  basin 
was  green  and  cool  and  limpid,  a  pool  for  merbabies  to 
play  in,  and  the  lapping  waters  of  the  harbour  lay  black 
and  threatening  between  dark  cliffs.  The  German,  who 
was  of  a  military  aspect,  skilled  in  all  knowledge  of  the 
coast  of  Cornwall,  said  that  no  one  came  here  at  this 
time  but  himself  and  in  half  an  hour  he  would  be  gone, 
so  they  sauntered  back  to  the  hotel  and  changed  into 
bathing  clothes  and  Cynthia  borrowed  a  cloak  from  the 
chambermaid,  who  brought  also  many  towels.  For  the 
sea  was  irresistible  and  the  sun  was  blazing  overhead 
with  obdurate  wrath  from  a  sky  of  brassy  splendour. 

Now  Cynthia  after  daring  climbing,  clever  with  bare 
feet  and  white  arms  grasping  and  gradual  ascent  to  a 
ledge  up  high,  showed  herself  a  bold  and  graceful  diver. 
She  was  not  an  acrobat,  that  is  to  say  she  dived  straight- 
forwardly, shooting  headforemost  without  somersaults ; 
but  while  she  lamented  their  absence  and  invoked  the 
memory  of  the  Lady  of  Fowey,  Peter  was  glad  not  to  see 
his  Cynthia  turning  head  over  heels,  which  seemed  to 
him  not  wholly  a  proper  or  suitable  thing  for  a  lady  to 
do.  Although  he  performed  the  feat  himself  without 
conscious  loss  of  dignity. 

When  they  reached  the  top  of  the  steps  again,  she 
cloaked  for  the  return  journey,  he  in  coat  and  trousers 
as  he  had  come,  they  found  the  anxious  German  standing 
guard  for  them:  he  was  telling  a  youth  that  he  must 
not  go  down  yet  for  there  was  a  lady  bathing  below. 


TRANSFORMATION  341 

Cynthia  blushed  at  the  narrowness  of  her  escape  and 
thanked  them  both  with  confusion  and  hurried  on.  So 
the  German  waved  his  straw  hat  in  the  air,  for  he  was 
a  courteous  individual,  and  Peter  pulled  at  a  wet  fore- 
lock with  a  friendly  grin  and  they  never  saw  each  other 
again,  although  they  came  close.  It  was  not  Peter's 
bayonet  which  struck  him  down.  .  .  . 

In  the  afternoon  the  Middletons  walked  a  little  way 
up  the  beautiful  Valency  valley,  and  on  their  return 
they  were  standing  looking  from  the  main  entrance  of 
the  hotel  towards  the  bridge  when  they  suddenly  be- 
came aware  of  a  familiar  form  moving  away  from  them. 
' '  Alan ! ' '  cried  Cynthia  to  Peter,  and  ' '  Alan ! ' '  repeated 
Peter  with  the  most  absolute  surprise.  It  was  she  who 
drew  him  back  into  safety.  Somehow  happiness  seemed 
to  have  blunted  Peter's  wits  and  Cynthia  felt  the  same 
about  her  own,  only  hers  had  chanced  to  be  the  quicker 
this  time.  She  would  never  have  admitted  that  she 
was  usually  the  readier  of  the  two. 

"He  would  have  noticed  us  if  it  hadn't  been  for  the 
coach,"  she  said  excitedly.  "He  must  have  been  watch- 
ing the  coach  just  as  we  were ! ' '  She  ran  out  and  ascer- 
tained that  Alan  was  crossing  the  bridge,  and  darted 
back  into  the  porch.  "Oh,  Peter!  What  an  escape! 
What  shall  we  do?" 

"Why  didn't  he  see  us  come  up?" 

' '  We  didn  't  see  him ;  why  should  he  see  us  ?  It  was 
just  accident.  But,  Peter,  Peter,  let's  do  something! 
What  shall  we  do?  He's  gone  over  the  bridge." 

"Well  go  the  way  he  came."  So  up  the  hill  they 
started,  at  racing  pace,  without  clear  idea  of  what  they 
were  going  to  do  with  themselves  all  the  afternoon  or 
how  they  were  to  get  back  to  the  hotel.  Presently  they 
found  themselves  opposite  an  old  man  who  had  been 
working  at  the  side  of  the  road.  The  old  man  stood 
up  straight  and  looked  at  them  out  of  piercing  blue 
eyes;  he  was  tall  and  broad  with  a  great  handsome 
head,  jutting  chin  fringed  with  white  beard,  a  firm 
mouth,  a  wise  forehead  above  his  bright,  shrewd  eyes; 
and  his  look  made  two  friends  for  him.  Cynthia 


342  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

recognised  his  face,  which  was  not  one  that  would  easily 
be  forgotten — no  doubt  he  had  served  as  model  to  many 
a  painter.  "Aren't  you  a  sailor?"  she  asked,  involun- 
tarily. ' '  Haven 't  I  seen  your  picture  in  the  Academy  ? ' ' 

He  answered  in  a  strong,  free  voice:  "I'm  a  sailor 
when  there's  work  for  seamen  down  along,  but  the 
harbour  is  not  what  it  was.  I've  a  message  for  ye, 
miss. ' ' 

"From  whom?"  His  eyes  were  intent  upon  her 
face;  kind  and  admiring,  in  an  old  man's  way  towards 
young  beauty. 

"From  the  Lord,  miss.  It  was  given  to  me  as  I  saw 
ye  breasting  the  steep  slope  of  the  hill  like  a  wild 
thing  hunted.  Ye  may  run  a  bra'  distance  afore  ye 
leave  trouble  behind,  but  the  Lord  said  to  me,  'John 
Penolver,  trouble  that  ye  set  out  to  face  with  prayer 
will  flee  like  the  rainbow-foot.  'Tes  farther  away  nor  a 
man  can  tell.'  Go  back  to  it,  missy.  Anger  couldn't 
never  stand  against  that  look  o'  yourn. " 

"Thank  you,  John  Penolver,"  she  said  gently,  and 
passed  on. 

They  walked  to  the  head  of  the  long  street  of  white 
cottages  with  bright  bits  of  garden  in  front;  because  of 
the  steepness  of  the  road  the  gutters  were  made  wide 
and  deep  on  either  hand  and  slabs  of  slate  formed  bridges 
to  the  gates  of  the  dwellings ;  and  then  they  turned  and 
went  downhill  to  face  Alan.  As  they  passed  the  old 
man  he  waved  a  greeting  and  cried  to  Peter,  "Take 
fisties  to  'un ! ' '  The  jolly  call  told  them  that  the  Spirit 
had  departed. 

"Talking  to  Alan  needn't  compromise  Shaun!"  said 
Peter,  though  he  might  have  known  that  it  would  be 
bound  to  do  so.  They  had  crossed  the  bridge  and  were 
hesitating  whether  to  turn  to  the  sea  or  the  Valency 
valley.  Cynthia  started.  She  had  forgotten  Shaun,  and 
here  was  actually  Alan  ahead,  appearing  from  the  foot- 
path to  the  valley.  He  waved  to  them  and  stopped. 

"Where  might  you  spring  from?"  inquired  Cynthia, 
airily,  as  they  came  up.  She  would  have  died  sooner 
than  reveal  her  trepidation  to  this  enemy  brother. 


TRANSFORMATION  343 

"I  come  from  Tintagel,  Sissy,"  said  Alan,  in  a  tone 
that  betrayed  equally  little.  He  barely  nodded  to  Peter. 
"And  I'm.  leaving  for  the  East  to-morrow.  Let's  turn 
back  along  this  path.  It's  quiet." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  the  East?"  she  demanded, 
puzzled  and  watchful. 

"Tokyo.  I  believe  it's  a  very  pleasant  Legation,  and 
plenty  of  opportunities  if  one's  good  at  languages." 

"Why,  Alan!" 

"You  are  looking  very  well,  Sis,  but  you  haven't 
grown  quick-witted!  You  knew  I  was  expecting  an 
attache-ship. ' ' 

"I  didn't  know  you  were  going  right  off  like  this! 
Shaun  hasn't  said  a  word  about  it!" 

"Shaun!"  said  Alan,  with  bitterness:  "you've  given 
it  away,  Sis,  haven't  you?  Not  that  I  ever  believed 
in  the  fellow.  I  always  knew  he  was  a  lying  hound 
from  the  first  moment  I  set  eyes  on  him." 

Peter,  who  was  walking  on  the  other  side  of  Cynthia, 
interfered  before  she  could  speak,  and  it  was  well,  for 
she  would  have  answered  hotly.  "He's  a  friend  of 
ours.  You  won't  make  matters  better  by  abusing  him, 
Alan." 

"It's  difficult  to  describe  what  you've  done  without 
appearing  to  abuse.  Can  you  deny  that  James  is  a  liar  ? 
Can  you  deny  that  he  has  been  treacherous  to  us  from 
the  first?  You've  just  admitted,  Sis,  that  he  has  known 
your  address  and  been  in  communication  with  you.  I 
suspected  it  after  the  first  five  days  and  set  to  work 
on  my  own  account.  And  here  I  am,  using  up  my  last 
days  at  home  in  search  of  my  only  sister  who's  made  a 
runaway  match  of  it !  I  haven 't  seen  Dad  since  yester- 
day morning.  I  've  just  time  to  drive  over  to  Camelford 
to-night  and  motor  to  Plymouth  and  catch  the  mail,  and 
I  shall  have  an  hour  with  Mother  to-morrow 

' '  How  is  Mummy  ? ' '  interrupted  Cynthia. 

"No  thanks  to  you,  she  is  well.  Hadn't  your  go- 
between  told  you?  Haven't  you  bothered  to  inquire? 
That  fellow  has  bewitched  you,  Rose.  You  aren't  your- 
self  " 


344  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

"Shut  up!"  interposed  Peter  again.  "Don't  speak 
to  her  in  that  tone." 

' '  I  will  not  shut  up !  I  will  speak  to  her  as  I  please 
and  as  she  deserves.  Nelly  told  me  what  to  think  of 
you,  Middleton.  She  told  me  there  was  nothing  in 
you.  She  told  me " 

"Peter!  Don't  hit  him,"  cried  Cynthia,  dismayed. 
She  forced  herself  between  the  two  men  and  pushed  them 
both  off  with  more  strength  than  she  had  imagined  she 
possessed.  They  stood  glaring. 

"I  lose  my  chance  of  saying  goodbye  to  Nelly  through 
you!"  said  Alan. 

"Who's  Nelly,  then?"  demanded  Cynthia. 

"You've  never  heard  of  Helen  Taliesin?  My  Nelly! 
I  asked  her  fifty  times  to  marry  me  and  she  wouldn't 
because  she  would  have  injured  my  career.  She's  a 
straight  girl!  She  would  not  go  back  on  what  she 
believed  or  be  silent  about  her  opinions,  and  she  knew 
that  as  my  wife  she  would  have  stood  in  my  way.  I 
offered  to  give  up  my  work;  but  no,  she  wouldn't  take 
that  sacrifice.  She  knew  that  I  loved  my  work.  She 
gave  me  up.  And  I  gave  her  up.  Dad  and  Mum  asked 
her  to  Tintagel  last  year  in  order  to  see  if  they  couldn't 
patch  it  together  somehow,  they  respected  her  so  much. 
There's  nothing  underhand  about  Nell."  He  stood, 
breathing  heavily,  looking  at  the  ground. 

"Don't  sneer  at  me!"  exclaimed  Cynthia.  "You've 
been  underhand  enough!  Why  did  you  not  tell  me 
all  that  at  the  time?" 

"Was  it  your  business?"  retorted  Alan,  coldly,  look- 
ing at  her.  ' '  You  were  only  a  child  last  year. ' ' 

"I'm  glad  you  recognise  I'm  not  a  child  any  longer. 
You've  never  trusted  me,  any  of  you,  never  given 
me  your  confidence  nor  deserved  any  of  mine.  That's 
been  the  trouble  always,  always!  But  I'm  sorry  about 
Helen  Taliesin,  Alan!  I  should  have  liked  her  for  a 
sister.  I'm  sorry  for  you,  frightfully  .  .  .  dear  old 
Alan." 

"I've  been  sorry  for  you  now  and  then,"  admitted 
Alan.  "I  suppose  you're  all  right,  Middleton.  Only 


TRANSFORMATION  345 

you  choose  your  friends  badly.  That  hypocritical, 
grinning  fool " 

"You  shan't  abuse  Shaun!" 

"I  lose  patience  when  I  think  of  him,  Rose.  You 
don't  know  how  he  has  played  with  us  this  last  fort- 
night. It  makes  one  talk  like  a  literary  chap  oneself 
and  say  he's  been  your  evil  genius  from  the  first!  I 
believe  it  would  have  been  all  right  about  your  marriage 
even,  without  his  interference.  All  of  us  understood 
about  the  Great  Company.  You  see  Dad  and  I  never 
liked  that  fellow,  Man,  and  I  must  say  James  explained 
it  very  well,  and  then  I  got  hold  of  one  of  your  chaps, 
Middleton,  a  fellow  called  Mulholland — very  decent  sort 
— and  he  threw  a  great  deal  of  light  on  it,  but  my  gad ! 
your  running  away  and  staying  away, — Thank  the  Lord, 
it  was  all  James 's  doing ! ' ' 

"Then  you  are  friendly  now?"  said  Cynthia  impul- 
sively, with  a  light  in  her  eyes. 

"If  you'd  spoken  sweetly  like  that  to  me  a  year  ago, 
Sis,  could  I  have  resisted  you?  Thank  you  for  your 
admission  that  it  was  all  James's  doing." 

"It's  a  good  job  you  are  going  to  be  a  diplomatist!" 
exclaimed  Peter,  angered.  "You  are  about  cut  out  for 
it!" 

"Come  now,  brother-in-law,  don 't  bear  malice !  Shake 
hands,  Peter  Middleton;  and  let's  make  the  best  of  it 
and  keep  our  own  opinions.  Only  you  must  make  it 
up  with  Dad  yourselves.  I'll  not  say  a  word  for  you, 
except  on  the  score  of  your  looks,  Rose.  You  are  a 
rose  softly  blooming,  and  no  mistake.  Marriage  agrees 
with  you."  Alan  glanced  at  his  watch.  "I  must  go 
back.  My  car's  ordered.  I  think  I  was  lucky  to  have 
run  across  you.  Confound  that  fellow's  knavish  tricks. 
How  he's  made  me  waste  this  last  fortnight!" 

"We'll  walk  back  with  you,"  offered  Cynthia. 

"No,  you  don't!  Well  part  while  I  feel  compara- 
tively good-natured.  I  suppose  you  won't  be  here  to- 
morrow ? ' ' 

"We  may  not,"  Peter  answered  cautiously,  in  reply 
to  a  glance  from  Cynthia. 


346  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

"Ah!  I'll  tell  the  Dad.  He'll  probably  stay  a  few 
days  more  at  Camelford,  as  they  tell  me  fishing's  to  be 
had.  It's  one  to  me  that  I've  found  you.  I  swore  you 
were  at  Tintagel!" 

"What  did  your  detectives  swear?"  she  slyly  asked. 

' '  I  wonder  what  you  mean ! ' '  remarked  Alan.  ' '  How- 
ever there's  no  leisure  to  inquire  now."  He  took  their 
right  hands,  swung  them  together  and  shook  them 
heartily.  ' '  Be  good ! ' '  cried  Alan  Bremner,  and  walked 
swiftly  away. 


XVI 

SHAUN 's  long  silence  during  their  moorland  days  at 
Radgells  had  induced  more  irritation  than  they  had 
ever  talked  out.  He  had  intended  it  to  do  so.  Their 
strict  duty  to  him  was  to  remain  where  they  were 
until  they  had  heard  from  him.  This  could  be  in  the 
morning,  for  the  letter  they  had  written  describing 
the  meeting  with  Alan  had  caught  the  post  from  Bos- 
castle  and  Shaun  might  wire  in  answer  to  it.  In  any 
case  they  were  expecting  a  letter  to  arrive  from  him 
next  day.  But  they  felt  a  strong  impulse  to  end  the 
suspense  by  seeking  out  Sir  Everard. 

All  Cynthia's  loyalty  could  not  prevent  her  feeling 
deeply  hurt  because  she  had  not  been  told  of  Alan's 
appointment  abroad.  She  was  compelled  to  blame  her 
father  as  well  as  Shaun,  for  he  could  easily  have  an- 
nounced the  news  in  the  Agony  Column  of  The  Times. 
And  she  puzzled  over  his  silence.  Later  in  the  evening 
the  true  solution  occurred  to  her.  Sir  Everard  had  re- 
ceived and  dismissed  Shaun 's  suggestion  as  to  the  use 
of  an  advertisement  at  a  time  when  he  still  believed 
in  his  good  faith;  and  had  forgotten  it  before  the  date 
when  the  appointment,  which  must  have  been  sudden, 
had  become  known  to  him.  Sir  Everard  was  therefore 
cleared.  She  did  not  think  it  possible,  however,  that 
Alan's  approaching  departure  had  been  concealed  from 
Shaun. 

After  dinner  they  talked  to  a  charming  Boston  lady 
who  was  staying  at  the  hotel.  Like  most  Americans 
she  was  very  willing  to  converse,  and  like  most  in- 
habitants of  Boston,  especially  those  who  are  feminine 
and  highly  educated,  she  was  ready  and  able  to  discuss 
abstract  questions.  Peter  and  Cynthia  were  young  peo- 

347 


348  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

pie  who  resembled  others  of  their  age  in  that  they 
enjoyed  talking  about  themselves,  but  they  did  this  in 
a  manner  that  was  discreet,  so  that  the  lady  was  un- 
able to  offer  them  counsel.  But  she  said  one  thing  which 
stuck  in  their  minds,  partly  because  she  seemed  kind  and 
sagacious  and  partly  because  it  had  a  sibylline  ring.  ' '  I 
guess  if  I  had  two  courses  open  to  me,  about  which  I 
was  hesitating,  I  'd  surely  choose  the  simpler ! "  It  would 
be  simpler  far  to  go  straight  to  Sir  Everard  to-morrow. 
They  lay  awake  all  night  and  tossed,  considering  it. 


XVII 

' '  FATHER  will  leave  the  house  by  ten, ' '  declared  Cynthia, 
and  she  slipped  out  of  her  shoes  and  threw  off  her 
cloak  as  she  did  so.  "Ough!  The  water  looks  cold. 
Peter,  can't  you  warm  it  for  me?"  She  tiptoed  down 
the  steps  to  a  ledge  beneath  which  the  deep,  green 
water  swirled  and  broke  occasionally  into  white  lapping 
waves  upon  the  dark  rock,  for  the  tide  was  flowing 
into  the  cleft  between  the  grim  cliffs,  and  bathing  was 
no  longer  safe  there  for  any  but  strong  swimmers.  These 
two  were  safe  enough. 

"The  sun's  been  shining  ever  since  five  o'clock!" 
said  Peter,  indignantly.  He  was  wrestling  with  a  knot 
in  his  bootlace. 

"It  doesn't  shine  in  here,"  said  Cynthia.  Her  body 
curved  over  the  water  and  her  small,  bare  feet  gripped 
the  rock,  while  her  knees  were  already  bending  for  the 
leap.  She  straightened  herself,  dropping  her  arms,  and 
expanded  her  chest,  gliding  naturally  from  one  graceful 
attitude  into  the  other.  With  raised  elbows,  her  hands 
became  busy  above  her  slender  neck  where  the  great 
ropes  of  hair  were  coiled.  Her  hair  shone  like  the 
polished  kernel  of  a  horse-chestnut  of  the  richest  brown. 
There  seemed  red  lights  in  it  as  well  as  gold,  and  the 
skin  of  her  neck  and  shoulders  was  milk-white  above 
the  dark-blue  of  her  swimming-suit.  She  turned  her 
head,  and  said,  "We  must  start  at — oh,  whenever  the 
'bus  for  the  9.15  goes,  because  we  must  not  reach  Daddy 
dusty  and  hot.  I  mayn't  have  time  to  dry  my  hair 
properly ! ' ' 

"That  can't  be  helped,"  said  Peter,  who  was  now 
ready. 

349 


350  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

Again  she  bent  forward  for  the  dive.  "It's  a  serious 
matter!"  she  said,  glancing  over  her  shoulder.  "I 
ought  to  look  my  best  for  him  and  he  likes  people 
unruffled.  I  shouldn  't  swim,  I  suppose,  or  else  we  should 
start  later!  But  we  must  catch  him  before  he  sets  out 
to  fish!"  "With  a  light  spring  her  heels  flew  up  and 
down  she  shot  headlong.  The  sound  of  a  clean  splash 
came  from  below  and,  as  Peter  stepped  to  the  edge,  her 
head  rose,  and  a  white  arm  above  it,  outstretched  gleam- 
ing, dripping,  struck  boldly,  and  he  saw  her  legs  come 
together  in  a  noble  kick.  As  she  sped  away  her  clear 
voice  came  ringing.  "Oh,  it's  cold,  cold  as  it  looked, 
but  lovely!  Is  that  settled,  Peter?  The  'bus?" 

"Yes,"  he  called  as  he  plunged.  And  that  was  how 
they  missed  Shaun's  telegram. 

The  King's  Arms  at  Camelford  had  a  flat  front  and 
was  placed  some  way  back  from  the  street  so  that 
vehicles  could  wait  conveniently  before  the  door.  They 
were  both  of  them  terrified  when  they  came  with  sudden- 
ness upon  it,  down  the  sloping,  narrow  street  in  hot 
sunshine.  Cynthia  in  spite  of  her  fears  looked  a  picture 
of  cool  self-possession,  while  Peter  was  dogged.  Al- 
though she  was  without  a  maid  and  had  bathed  that 
morning  the  girl  had  contrived  to  get  back  what  Shaun 
used  to  describe  as  ' '  that  wonderful  bandbox  air. ' '  They 
stood  in  the  open  doorway  for  a  moment  before  anyone 
came,  and  Cynthia  whispered  with  a  smile,  "I'm  just 
realising  we've  never  heard  from  Shaun  and  are  going 
against  what  he  said.  Oh,  I  can  remember  all  my  follies 
and  sins  now  from  childhood  up ! "  He  saw  that  her 
beautiful  grey  eyes  were  filling  with  tears  and  his  own 
face  must  have  softened,  because  she  sighed  ' '  My  dear ! 
My  dear ! ' '  and  turned  away.  Then  he  heard  her  say  in 
her  natural  voice,  "Will  you  take  this  note  to  Sir 
Everard  Bremner,  if  he  is  in  the  hotel.  .  .  .  Yes,  we 
will  wait.  .  .  .  Thank  you,  we  will  stay  here."  She 
had  spoken  in  her  usual  self-possessed  voice  of  silver 
clearness,  with  the  manner  of  London  again,  as  it  seemed 
to  Peter.  A  momentary  vision  of  the  house  in  Portman 


TRANSFORMATION  351 

Square  came  to  him  from  very  long  ago,  from  the 
ages  of  memory.  .  .  . 

Cynthia  had  written,  Dear  Father,  we  have  come  to 
ask  forgiveness,  and  had  signed  herself  Cynthia  Middle- 
ton.  She  had  not  dared  to  put  Polly,  or  Tour  Polly, 
or  else  her  pride  had  forbidden  her;  while  she  waited 
she  was  wondering  what  that  pride  had  been  which 
now  appeared  so  far  away.  She  wished  she  had  written 
Polly.  She  longed  for  her  father,  longed  to  be  his 
child,  Polly. 

She  was  in  front  of  Peter,  who  was  looking  at  the 
wall.  He  heard  the  maid  approach  and  say,  "Sir 
Everard  asks  you  to  wait  a  few  moments  for  him  in  the 
drawing-room,  ma'am."  He  was  following  Cynthia 
along  a  corridor,  as  he  had  not  often  followed  her,  during 
their  out-of-door  courtship  and  marriage;  the  sensation 
was  rather  strange,  and  now  she  turned  sharply  to  the 
left  and  for  an  instant  he  caught  sight  of  her  profile 
under  the  brim  of  her  Panama  hat.  They  were  going 
upstairs.  She  out-distanced  him  with  light  agility,  and 
the  maid  was  running  ahead,  eager  to  get  back  to  her 
work.  How  daintily  was  she  shod,  this  wife  of  his! 
what  slim  ankles  in  the  brown  silk  stockings!  He  re- 
membered that  in  mounting  a  'bus  she  never  kicked  up 
her  skirt  as  most  girls  do.  He  remembered  her  bare, 
symmetrical  limbs  as  she  stood  ready  to  dive.  She  was 
of  beautiful  symmetry  from  head  to  foot,  a  joy  to  his 
artist's  eyes.  He  rose  above  her,  as  they  came  to  a 
landing,  which  they  crossed  to  enter  a  large,  quiet  room. 

He  had  a  dim  impression  of  saddlebag  sofas  and  big 
chairs  and  pictures  that  he  did  not  care  for,  and  then 
the  door  closed  and  they  were  alone.  She  fluttered  to 
him  and  caught  his  hands  and  held  them  to  her  heart, 
which  was  throbbing.  Her  eyes  were  deep  and  fright- 
ened. Neither  of  them  spoke,  for  what  was  there  to 
say?  But  their  nearness  was  comforting. 

Minutes  passed,  which  seemed  hours.  Cynthia  released 
his  hands  and  moved  away,  facing  the  door,  tense  and 
upright.  Another  minute  went,  in  deadly  silence.  Peter 
heard  a  step  in  the  passage  and  saw  her  start  and  her 


352  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

shoulders  quiver,  then  they  steadied  again  as  he  strode 
forward  to  her  side,  and  the  door  opened. 

Sir  Everard  came  in  and  closed  the  door  behind  him 
smoothly  and  dexterously.  He  was  dressed  in  grey 
tweeds,  as  a  country  gentleman  might  be.  His  expres- 
sion, though  not  unfriendly,  showed  nothing  of  his 
thoughts,  and  he  had  an  air  of  authority  and  an  ease  in 
coming  forward  which  conveyed  the  effect  of  conscious 
intention.  Cynthia  was  too  terrified  to  receive  any  im- 
pression at  all  except  that  Daddy  had  on  an  old  suit. 
She  was  too  terrified  to  stir  or  to  speak. 

Sir  Everard  shook  hands  with  her  and  kissed  her  on 
the  forehead,  saying,  ' '  Good  morning,  Rosemary. ' '  Then 
he  turned  to  Peter,  who  met  a  piercing  glance  honestly. 
His  grasp  was  chill,  and  his  voice  a  shade  colder  when 
he  said,  ' '  How  are  you,  Middleton  ? ' '  than  when  he  had 
addressed  his  daughter;  yet  it  was  neither  angry  nor 
unkind — merely  non-committal. 

Peter  said, ' '  I  beg  your  pardon  for  running  away  from 
you,  sir." 

"Perhaps  you  had  better  sit  down,"  suggested  Sir 
Everard.  "There's  a  chair  behind  you,  Rose.  Do  not 
be  in  too  much  of  a  hurry,  Middleton.  This  matter 
cannot  be  settled  by  a  simple  apology,  I  fear." 

"Daddy!"  gulped  Cynthia. 

"Control  yourself,  please.  I  have  not  refused  your 
husband's  apology,  and  it  is  not  impossible  that  I  may 
yet  see  my  way  to  accept  it.  I  wish  you  both  to  under- 
stand that  this  interview  is  in  my  hands.  I  will  ask 
questions  and  you  will  answer  them." 

Cynthia's  eyes,  filled  with  tears,  were  fixed  on  her 
father's  face,  imploring  him.  A  weak,  little  gesture  of 
her  hands,  her  pose  implored  him ;  her  youth,  her  grace, 
her  beauty  made  her  intolerably  pathetic,  and  Sir 
Everard  for  the  first  time  betrayed  uneasiness.  He  in- 
quired, almost  hurriedly,  "Are  you  aware  that  Mr. 
James  wrote  to  give  me  your  address  at  Radgells?" 

"No!"  said  Peter,  surprised.    "I " 

"You  were  not  aware.  Then  was  your  coming  here 
suggested  or  advised  by  Mr.  James?" 


TRANSFORMATION  353 

"No." 

' '  I  am  glad  of  that ! ' '  said  Sir  Everard,  and  his  tone 
spoke  of  a  very  real  relief,  and  his  face  brightened.  "I 
am  heartily  glad  of  that."  Cynthia  longed  to  sob  out, 
"We  wanted  to  come  before  but  Shaun  would  not  let 
us,"  and  was  grateful  all  her  life  that  she  remained 
loyally  silent,  for  he  went  on,  "I  gather  with  the  most, 
profound  thankfulnes,  Polly,  that  the  words  in  your 
little  note  are  true.  I  could  not  bear  to  think  that  my 
daughter  was  tricking  me.  Mr.  James  told  me  in  a 
letter  which  I  received  after  your  departure  from 
Radgells  that  your  elopement  was  advised  and  planned 
by  him;  he  confessed  that  you  had  again  and  again 
begged  him  for  release  from  the  undertaking  you  had 
given  to  abide  by  his  advice.  He  said  that  Middleton 
had  been  eager  from  the  beginning  to  come  forward  in 
a  straightforward  manner  and  face  my  anger — which  I 
daresay  it  is  as  well  you  were  prevented  from  doing, — 
and  he  acknowledged  that  you  were  longing  to  see  your 
mother  and  relieve  her  anxiety.  I  had  not  been  wholly 
taken  in  by  Mr.  James,  and  the  contents  of  his  letter 
did  not  come  altogether  as  a  surprise;  but  I  confess  I 
remained  somewhat  suspicious  till  yesterday,  when  I 
learned  from  Alan  that  he  had  not  exaggerated  his  in- 
fluence over  you  both.  I  'm  relieved  that  you  have  come 
of  your  own  accord — heartily  thankful,  in  fact." 

"Do  forgive  me,  Daddy!"  said  Cynthia,  and  she  did 
precisely  what  Shaun  would  have  recommended,  that  is 
to  say  she  fell  on  her  knees  beside  her  father's  chair, 
clung  to  him  and  wept  bitterly,  sobbing  her  heart  out 
like  a  little  child. 

At  first  Sir  Everard  stroked  her  hair  in  a  feeble  sort 
of  way,  looking  sympathetic  and  a  trifle  self-conscious, 
then  he  became  uneasy,  said,  "There!  There!"  tried  to 
raise  her  and  glanced  uncomfortably  at  Peter,  who  also 
did  the  right  thing.  He  picked  Cynthia  up  and  let 
her  have  her  cry  out  on  his  shoulder.  Forgetting  the 
difference  between  fathers  and  lovers,  Sir  Everard  had 
quite  the  air  of  regarding  this  as  a  feat  of  skill  and 
self-sacrifice. 


354  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

"By  the  way,"  he  said,  seeking  an  inner  pocket,  "I 
have  a  telegram  addressed  to  you.  I  obtained  it  from 
Mrs.  Trerice  at  Eadgells — a  very  respectable  woman, 
that!  Here  it  is,  Middleton.  The  telegraph  boy  gave 
it  to  her  daughter  after  you  had  gone.  I  should  have 
returned  it  to  the  Post  Office,  but  I  did  not  do  so." 

With  Cynthia  still  holding  forlornly  to  the  lapels  of 
his  coat,  shaken  by  sobs  that  were  becoming  less  fre- 
quent now,  Peter  deftly  took  the  paper  from  Sir 
Everard's  outstretched  hand  and  opened  the  envelope. 
Shaun's  silence  was  explained,  when  he  read,  do  as 
wish  have  written  him  camelford  also  you  wait  letter  if 
can  going  new  york.  "Darling,  Shaun's  going  to  New 
York!"  he  cried,  handing  the  telegram  to  Sir  Everard. 

' '  He  told  me  that, ' '  said  Sir  Everard.  He  added  after 
he  had  read  it,  "James  did  not  say  he  had  written  to 
you,  but  that  does  not  matter  now. ' ' 

Cynthia  was  mopping  her  eyes  hard.  As  soon  as 
she  could  speak,  she  said  somewhat  gaspingly,  "Fancy 
Shaun  going  away!" 

"Let  us  settle  about  Mr.  James,"  interrupted  Sir 
Everard,  before  Peter  could  reply.  "You  will  not,  I 
imagine,  expect  me  to  forgive  him  for  having  lied  to 
your  Mother  and  myself  during  these  anxious  weeks, 
nor  was  I  particularly  flattered  by  the  cynical  alacrity 
with  which  in  his  last  letter  he  offered  to  give  up  our 
acquaintance.  But  as  he  is  going  abroad  and  as  the 
secrecy  of  your  marriage,  Polly,  will  require  to  be  ex- 
plained to  the  world  as  a  Bohemian  and  romantic  freak, 
it  might  be  just  as  well  for  us  all  to  remain  at  least  on 
speaking  terms  with  him.  I'm  not  urging  on  you  any 
strong  measures,  Middleton ;  you  would  be  wise  to  keep 
silent!" 

"Won't  you  call  him  Peter,  Daddy  dear?"  asked 
Cynthia,  who  was  still  dazed  by  her  collapse,  or  she 
would  not  have  made  so  false  a  step. 

Sir  Everard  withdrew  into  himself  visibly,  and  said  in 
a  very  cold  voice,  "I  have  overlooked  a  great  many 
things.  Do  not  try  to  make  me  go  too  fast.  And  had 
you  not  better  sit  down  now?  There  is  no  need  for 


TRANSFORMATION  355 

you  still  to  stand  hugging  each  other,  I  imagine!  At 
first  I  thought  it  a  pretty  sight,  but  I  confess  it  is  be- 
ginning to  get  a  little  on  my  nerves!  .  .  .  Thank  you, 
child.  As  I  said  a  year  or  so  ago  I  have  no  objection  to 
your  husband — forgive  my  plainness,  Middleton, — ex- 
cept on  the  score  of  means.  Indeed,  as  the  son  of  an  old 
friend,  a  man  who  was  respected  by  every  single  per- 
son who  knew  him,  I  am  glad  to  receive  him  into  my 
family.  We  will  say  nothing  about  the  Great  Company, 
as  Mr.  Man  made  such  an  absolutely  ungentlemanly  at- 
tempt to  prejudice  your  Mother  that  he  put  himself 
out  of  court  with  men  of  honour.  I  never  did  like 
him,  nor  ever  shall.  For  the  rest,  we  can  only  hope 
that  Mr.  James's  high  hopes  for  your  career,  Mid- 
dleton, will  be  fulfilled.  You  appear  to  have  made  a 
good  start.  I  can  allow  Rosemary — largely  through 
your  brother  Alan's  generosity — two  hundred  a  year, 
and  that  is  all.  All " 

"Oh,  thank  you,  Daddy!"  cried  Cynthia,  and  Peter, 
too,  murmured  thanks.  Although  as  a  matter  of  fact 
well  within  Sir  Everard's  means,  it  was  more  than 
they  had  dreamed  of  hoping. 

"You  will  have  to  struggle  along  as  best  you  may. 
Now  I  want  to  go  and  fish,  and  you  must  catch  the 
afternoon  train  home,  that  is,  to  town,  and  make  your 
separate  peace  with  your  Mother.  Don't  put  up  at  the 
Paddington ;  go  somewhere  nearer  for  a  night  or  two. 
Middleton,  will  you  leave  me  with  my  daughter  for  a 
few  minutes?  There's  a  lounge  at  the  end  of  the 
passage."  When  Peter  was  gone,  he  continued,  "I'll 
pay  for  the  hotel,  don't  worry  yourself  about  that; 
and  to-morrow  I  '11  come  home,  and  we  '11  talk  things  over 
and  decide  where  you  are  to  live,  etcetera  and  so  forth ! ' ' 

"Thank  you,  Dad!" 

"Polly,  have  I  been  such  a  very  cruel  father?  I 
think  you  might  have  had  a  chat  with  me  before  you 
did  anything  so  rash,  don 't  you  ? ' ' 

"It  isn't  easy  to  talk  to  you,"  answered  Cynthia, 
hanging  her  head.  "When  you  don't  want  to  listen, 
Daddy."  He  frowned,  but  he  could  not  be  stern  with 


356  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

so  picturesque  a  daughter.  She  was  good  to  see,  and 
he  had  not  looked  on  her  for  three  weeks.  He  felt  a 
sudden  thrill  of  pride. 

"Mr.  James  said  I  did  not  allow  you  enough  liberty. 
Did  you  think  that,  too,  Polly?" 

"Sometimes,"  she  admitted,  meeting  his  gaze,  with 
frank  eyes  and  mutinous  brows. 

He  sighed.  "I  was  very  busy  at  the  Office  always," 
he  said,  meditatively.  "I  should  have  told  you  about 
your  Mother,  though,  and  then  this  might  not  have 
happened.  Polly  dear,  how  could  you  hurt  your  Mother 
so?  You  saw  that  she  was  ill  last  year.  How  could 
you  do  what  you've  done?  How  had  you  the  heart  to 
do  it?" 

Cynthia  went  white.     "Mother  isn't  ill?     Is  she?" 

"No,  no,  not  now.  That's  all  over.  But  she's  not 
strong,  you  know.  .  .  .  Don 't  you  ? ' ' 

"Mother  kept  me  away  from  Peter  by  being  not 
strong.  Daddy,  she  used  it!  She  took  advantage  of  it. 
I  couldn't  do  anything  against  that  weapon.  I  couldn't 
face  her.  Really,  Daddy.  And  then  there  was  that  rule 
in  the  Great  Company  about  not  marrying,  do  you 
know?" 

"Yes,  I  know." 

"And  I  couldn't  do  it  openly.  I  was  afraid  to.  I 
couldn  't,  Daddy !  But  I  do  love  you  both. ' ' 

"Do  you,  Polly?" 

"Yes,  I  do!  I  do!  I  do!  I've  missed  you  so  these 
weeks — I've  been  frightfully  happy;  Peter  has  been  a 
dear;  he's  been  perfect  every  second  of  the  time. — But 
I've  missed  you  so,  and  wanted  so  much  to  be  friends, 
and  ...  oh  Daddy!  I  have  missed  you." 

"Do  we  come  behind  Peter  in  your  heart?  The 
truth!" 

She  hesitated.  "Are  you  doubtful?"  he  asked 
quickly,  leaning  forward. 

"No,"  she  said,  with  just  a  little  pride.  "I'm  not 
that." 

He  sank  back,  and  was  silent  for  a  moment.  Then  he 
said,  "You  underrate  your  Mother,  Polly.  It's  right 


TRANSFORMATION  357 

that  you  should  love  your  Peter  more,  I'm  not  dis- 
puting that.  But  you  don't  know  how  brave  a  woman 
Lina  is.  My  fault,  my  dear!  I  wanted  to  spare  you. 
You  thought  it  was  only  her  nerves  wrong  at  the  be- 
ginning of  the  year,  but  it  was  more  than  that.  We 
had  reason  to  believe  she  was  going  blind." 

His  tone  forbade  doubt.  Aghast,  Cynthia  repeated, 
' '  Blind ! ' '  remembering  all  Lady  Bremner  's  fears  and 
how  in  secret  she  had  despised  them.  ' '  Poor  Mummy ! ' ' 

"The  decay  of  the  optic  nerve  has  ceased.  It  may  not 
start  again.  .  .  .  She  had  lost  her  long  sight  before  I 
knew  of  it.  It  was  going  in  1911.  It  grew  worse  at 
Tintagel  in  1912.  She  consulted  a  specialist  and  told 
me  what  he  said — in  the  December  of  the  same  year — 
and  after  that  it  got  on  her  nerves.  .  .  .  We  often 
saw  the  specialist,  but  there  was  nothing  to  be  done. 
You  remember  she  had  a  bout  of  influenza  and  was  ill 
for  long — you  nursed  her  well,  Polly,  you  were  a  good 
girl.  She  began  to  get  better  after  that  and  even  made 
progress.  Now  the  trouble  is  stationary.  You  needn't 
cry,  child.  The  bad  times  are  over,  we  hope.  But  you 
mustn't  underrate  your  Mother.  Alan  knew,  and  we 
ought  to  have  told  you;  I  can  see  that,  when  it's  too 
late!  It  seemed  needless.  It  appeared  to  us  to  be 
needlessly  cruel,  since  you  could  do  nothing,  and  you 
might  have  been  frightened,  Polly,  though  the  trouble 
isn't  hereditary.  You  seemed  so  young  to  us,  such  a 
child.  We  didn't  realise,  I  think.  I  didn't!  That 
James  fellow  has  made  some  things  clear.  .  .  .  Some 
things!"  All  at  once  she  saw  her  father  as  an  old 
man,  needing  love;  and  the  fear  that  she  had  had 
of  him  during  her  whole  life  vanished  as  she  held  out 
her  hands  to  him  impulsively,  both  hands,  which  he  did 
not  refuse:  and  again  she  fell  upon  her  knees  by  his 
side,  but  this  time  as  a  daughter,  not  a  penitent. 

They  were  fortunate.  They  had  begun  to  understand 
each  other  before  it  was  too  late. 

"The  Lady  of  Fowey  did  save  us,"  chattered  Cynthia, 
when  they  were  in  the  train  after  a  most  affectionate 


358  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

leave-taking  from  the  Trerice  family  and  a  drily  cordial 
one  from  Sir  Everard.  "He  was  in  an  awful  mood,  that 
day,  at  Dozmary!  And  when  he  was  looking  at  the 
Furry  Dance  he  had  Shaun's  letter  in  his  hand  and  had 
had  bad  fishing  all  the  morning — you  know  it  was  a 
fearfully  hot  day!  Everything's  for  the  best,  really, 
even  Shaun  going  to  America!  He  has  been  queer, 
hasn't  he?" 

"I  believe  he's  been  devilish  self-sacrificing!"  said 
Peter,  with  unwonted  strength  of  language.  "That's 
what's  dawning  upon  me!" 

"Oh,  I'm  so  happy  I  can't  think  about  it,"  coaxed 
Cynthia,  nestling  to  him,  for  the  carriage  was  empty. 
"Can  you,  when  I'm  here?" 

It  seemed  that  he  could  not. 


xvni 

THEY  reached  their  hotel,  which  was  shabby  and  select 
and  in  Mayfair,  by  eleven  o  'clock,  and  after  Cynthia  had 
tidied  her  dress  and  herself  she  went  straight  to  Port- 
man  Square  with  a  note  which  Sir  Everard  had  written 
to  Lady  Bremner,  who  had  also  been  prepared  by  tele- 
gram to  receive  her  erring  daughter.  She  had  not  been 
gone  five  minutes  when  Shaun  arrived. 

He  was  exactly  the  same — straw-coloured  hair  and 
acute  face  and  restless  hands, — Peter  had  expected  him 
to  look  older.  "I  hope  you  dislike  me  a  little!"  he 
began,  anxiously.  "I  got  your  wire  of  course  or  I 
shouldn't  be  here — I  hope  you  were  annoyed  with  me 
for  not  writing.  I  meant  you  to  think  me  a  bit  of 
an  ass,  you  know;  too  much  in  love  with  intrigue,  and 
inconsiderate  of  Cynthia's  feelings;  so  that  you'd  hate 
me  by  the  time  you  met  Sir  Everard.  This  quaint  old 
spot  reminds  me  of  him,  by  the  way.  I  bet  he  chose  it 
and  I  hope  to  goodness  he's  paying  for  it!  He  prob- 
ably stayed  here  thirty  years  ago  while  he  was  moving 
into  Portman  Square.  You  can  see  they've  never 
touched  the  furniture  since,  except  with  a  duster.  But 
it's  a  good  hotel.  Even  me  they  received  reverentially, 
and  that's  a  test  for  a  servant,  I  can  assure  you,  Peter, 
old  thing.  Say  you  love  me  a  little  still." 

Peter  grabbed  at  his  hand  again  and  wrung  it. 

"Ow!"  said  Shaun.  "The  moor  has  done  your 
muscles  good,  anyway.  I  mustn't  stop,  because  I  can 
see  with  my  eyes  and  have  heard  with  my  ears  down- 
stairs that  your  good  wife  is  out,  and  she  may  return 
with  your  mother-in-law.  Peter,  you  must  not  ask  them 
to  forgive  me.  They  wouldn't  be  human  if  they  did, 
except  perhaps  young  Alan,  who  was  most  remarkably 

359 


360  THE  JOYFUL  YEAKS 

outspoken  and  may  be  in  a  forgiving  mood !  I  lied  lik'e 
hell,  and  was  so  infernally  sympathetic,  and  my  volte- 
face  was  sudden  and  complete.  Mind  you,  I  -wrote  Sir 
Everard  a  good  letter — after  fifteen  or  sixteen  rough 
drafts,  for  you  know  I'm  a  laborious  composer, — be- 
cause he  mustn't  hate  me  too  much  or  it  would  reflect 
seriously  on  your  judgment.  But  then  he  had  to  'blame 
me,  had  to  see  that  I  was  responsible,  don 't  you  know, — 
what!" 

"Shaun,  what  makes  you  queer  like  this?"  cried 
Peter. 

Shaun  looked  uncomfortable.  ' '  You  mustn  't  like  me, ' ' 
he  said.  "Not  for  some  time  yet — it  wouldn't  be  at  all 
wise.  And  I  was  rather  beastly  to  your  good  wife.  It 
couldn't  be  helped,  though.  First,  time  and  anxiety 
softened  their  hard,  outer  shell,  you  see;  and  then,  as 
they  still  had  to  hate  somebody,  I  concentrated  all  of 
it  on  myself !  There  never  was  such  acting  as  mine !  I 
used  to  pat  myself  on  the  head  for  hours.  But  I  hope 
next  time  you'll  remember  what  an  age  letters  take  to 
come  from  Cornwall.  You  evidently  never  got  my  first 
wire.  How  was  that?  It  did  not  come  back  to  me." 

Peter  explained  in  his  clumsy  way. 

"Surely  the  telegraph  boy  deserves  the  sack!"  inter- 
rupted Shaun.  .  .  .  and  then,  "Oh,  the  Trerices!  Dear 
things,  aren't  they?  Then  I'll  say  no  more.  Now  tell 
your  whole  story  from  the  beginning.  Is  that  the  bed- 
room? I'll  retire  there  if  Lady  Bremner  comes,  for  I 
dare  not  face  her.  Be  wise.  Don't  stand  up  for  me  too 
much !  We  shall  never  be  quite  the  same  to  each  other, 
I  hope,  for  your  sake — you're  looking  what  used  to  be 
called  'manly,'  old  boy,  and  she  is  a  darling,  isn't  she? 
But  go  on." 

' '  Shaun,  must  you  go  to  America  ? ' '  asked  Peter. 

He  glanced  away,  and  said  hastily:  "Yes,  yes,  I  must. 
I  don't  like  it,  but  it's  really  necessary.  I've  taken  a 
job  over  there  after  my  old  fashion. ' ' 

' '  Journalism !     Oh,  Shaun,  is  it  money  ? ' ' 

Shaun  could  always  tell  a  half-truth  perfectly  and  he 
looked  Peter  square  in  the  eyes.  ' '  Only  partly, ' '  he  said. 


TRANSFORMATION  361 

"It's  my  work!  Although  I  can  be  vigorous  enough  in 
journalism,  you  know  what  a  porcelain  style  mine  is 
in  novel  writing,  and  with  what  labour  I  achieve  it.  I've 
never  been  a  worshipper  of  style  without  matter,  of 
line  without  mass,  and  all  the  rest  of  it.  The  truth  is 
that  I'm  written  out,  old  boy.  I've  known  it  for  some 
time,  and  now  seemed  the  opportunity  to  break  with 
the  stuff  that  I  can't  do  right.  I've  burnt  the  last  MS. 
Between  ourselves,  this  is  my  punishment  for  having 
made  love  to  Cynthia.  I  deserve  anything  for  having 
lost  my  head  over  a  girl  half  my  age.  Don't  misunder- 
stand me.  My  work  really  died  with  my  wife,  with  my 
heart;  and,  in  a  way,  Cynthia  was  the  dream  who  was 
keeping  me  alive ;  but  when  the  memory  of  Doris  passed, 
when  I  was  disloyal  and  thought  I  cared  for  Cynthia 
not  as  a  dream,  no  longer  as  a  tall,  beautiful  friend 
whom  I  helped,  then  it  was  that  I  recognised  a  change 
in  the  stuff  I  was  turning  out.  And  when  Doris  came 
back  and  the  dream  had  vanished  I  knew  I  had  always 
been  dead,  and,  though  I  feel  I'm  with  her  always,  I 
do  not  feel  that  I  have  more  work  to  do,  and  I  see  the 
hopelessness  of  what  I  am  doing." 

' '  No  one  else  does ! ' '  said  Peter. 

"Yes,  they  do,"  Shaun  asserted  sadly.  "Forgive  me, 
but  the  people  who  really  know  have  seen." 

"Shaun!    It  will  come  back." 

"In  the  meantime  I'm  going  to  the  stuff  that  I've 
a  facility  for.  I'm  going  to  grow  rich,  and  buy 
pictures!" 

"Why  not  stay  in  England  with  us?  Cynthia  will 
miss  you." 

Shaun  laughed.  "A  little,  perhaps,  you  dear  old 
fellow.  No,  I'm  off.  I'd  have  left  you  the  flat— I 
thought  of  that  at  first, — only  I  don't  know,  it  would 
seem  rather  a  slap  in  the  face  to  the  Bremners,  so  I've 
found  you  another  crib, — over  a  shop  in  Mayfair, — the 
refusal  of  course;  I  haven't  committed  you.  We'll  see 
it  to-morrow,  and  I'll  get  you  to  buy  as  much  of  my 
furniture  as  you  can  do  with.  Cheap,  supposing  you 
jpay;  dear,  if  Sir  Everard  does,  as  I  daresay  he  will! 


362  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

Carry  on  with  that  yarn  of  yours  now.    We've  talked 
enough  about  me." 

Until  Cynthia  was  out  of  the  hotel  it  did  not  strike 
her  that  she  should  have  had  an  escort,  that  never 
before  had  she  been  alone  in  the  streets  of  London  at 
half  past  eleven  at  night.  The  noises  around  her 
were  bewildering,  the  hurrying  figures  appeared  to 
linger  in  passing  her  by;  and  presently,  although  she 
only  had  a  little  distance  to  go,  she  hailed  a  taxi.  Then 
there  was  another  strangeness ;  it  was  odd  to  sit  in  dark- 
ness and  be  borne  past  sudden  glaring  lights  and  round 
breathless  corners,  without  the  soft  touch  of  swansdown 
or  of  silk  on  bare  shoulders;  most  singular  of  all  when 
she  drew  up  in  front  of  the  remembered  door,  to  think 
that  she  was  Rosemary  Bremner  no  longer.  And  Cyn- 
thia Middleton  had  no  purse  in  her  pocket!  Annoyed, 
she  ran  up  the  steps  and  rang  the  bell. 

' '  Is  my  mother  up  ?  Where  is  my  mother  ? ' '  She  had 
spoken  before  glancing  at  the  face  of  the  maid,  and  now 
she  saw,  with  a  start,  that  the  woman  was  a  stranger. 

"Lady  Bremner 's  in  the  drawing-room,  m'm.  Will 
you  please  to  come  up?" 

"Yes.  Please  pay  the  cabman.  I  have  left  my  purse 
behind." 

"Yes,  m'm."  The  maid  was  about  to  precede  her, 
but  Cynthia  called  her  back. 

"Pay  him  now,  please.  I  will  announce  myself." 
She  ran  upstairs  with  a  feeling  of  gladness  at  her  heart 
and  a  great  joy  that  home  should  still  be  home.  She 
had  not  forgotten,  and  it  was  good  to  be  there.  She 
scarcely  knocked  at  the  drawing-room  door,  but  rushed 
in  more  like  Cynthia  Middleton  than  Rosemary  Bremner, 
calling,  "Mummy!  Mummy!  Are  you  here?"  And 
Lady  Bremner  rose,  slender  and  elegant  in  a  black 
evening  dress,  from  the  very  chair  by  the  fire  from  which 
she  had  seen  Peter 's  tall  form  uplift  itself  ages  ago.  How 
young  she  had  been  then!  Her  mother's  face  was 
anxious  and  doubtful,  and  she  looked  sad  and  she  did 
not  advance  to  meet  her,  but,  as  Cynthia  came  forward, 


TRANSFORMATION  363 

a  very  sweet  look  overspread  her  face,  and  suddenly  she 
stretched  out  her  arms.  .  .  . 

"Lor'  love  a  duck!  Here's  Cynthia!"  said  Shaun. 
' '  Lor ',  but  her  be  a  booty !  How  happy  her  looks  tii,  in 
spite  of  the  tears  in  her  lovely  eyen!  Her  mother  has 
been  kind  to  her,  for  sure  now,  and  isn't  that  so, 
whateffer,  mavourneen?  I  never  excelled  at  dialect. 
But  shall  I  imitate  a  kangaroo  for  you?  At  moments 
of  great  excitement,  my  kangaroo — one  hops  solemnly 
round  with  dangling  paws  like  this — used  to  make  Doris 
laugh  outrageously.  That's  the  wrong  adverb.  But  you 
know  what  I  mean ! ' ' 

"Phyllis  is  going  to  be  married,"  said  Cynthia,  clasp- 
ing his  hands.  "Mummy  told  me,  and  I've  just  read 
it  in  a  scrawl  from  Joyce.  She 's  engaged  to  Mr.  Philip 
Adams,  whom  you  two  met  at  the  Revel."  She  had 
dropped  Shaun 's  hands  and  gone  to  Peter.  * '  He 's  much 
older  than  she  is,  Boy  dear,  and  she  declares  that  he's 
the  only  man  she  has  ever  met  who  would  promise  to 
let  her  do  exactly  as  she  likes.  'Always  the  object  of 
That  One's  yearnings,'  says  Joycie.  Would  you  believe 
it,  Shaun,  she  hasn't  written  to  me  herself!' 

"A  poor  return  for  your  confidence  in  her,"  responded 
Shaun,  gravely.  Cynthia  smiled. 

"Will  your  mother  see  me?"  Peter  wanted  to  know. 

Shaun  interrupted.  "Discuss  it  after  I'm  gone,"  he 
said,  "which  will  be  in  a  moment  or  two.  I'm  per- 
fectly sure  she  does  not  want  to  see  me  any  more  and 
that's  all  that  concerns  Shaun.  When  you  came  in, 
Cynthia,  I  'd  just  heard  how  you  missed  my  telegram  on 
the  last  day  telling  you  to  go  to  Sir  Everard  at  once. 
There  are  some  people  in  the  world  who  are  very  lucky, 
children,  and  you  seem  to  be  a  pair  of  them.  Witness 
that  blessed  aunt  of  Peter's,  besides  some  diving  girl 
who  sounds  to  me  as  though  she  might  be  the  wife  of  a 
man  called  Wyndham  Merrion  Wyndham,  who's  a  good 
sort.  I  was  about  to  remark — which  sounds  Yankee! — 
that  I  must  take  my  leave.  Do  you  often  address  Peter 
as 'Boy  dear,' Cynthia?" 


364  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

"Not  often,"  she  said,  flushing. 

"Did  you  begin  it  by  calling  her  'Girl'?"  demanded 
Shaun,  turning  to  Peter. 

"I  might  have."    Peter  was  bewildered. 

Cynthia  was  not.  She  went  to  Shaun  and  stood  in 
front  of  him,  with  hanging  head.  "I  know  I'm  not 
natural!"  she  said.  "I'm  a  piggish,  ungrateful  beast 
to  you,  Shaun  dear. ' '  She  flung  up  her  chin  and  met  his 
sad  gaze  frankly. 

"Things  change,"  said  Shaun,  "which  has  been 
noticed  before,  by  the  way.  No,  I  won't  be  flippant. 
But  I  asked  about '  Boy  dear, '  because  Doris  used  to  call 
me  that!" 

"I'm  not  disloyal  at  heart,"  said  Cynthia. 

"I  know  you  aren't." 

"And  I  ask  you  to  forgive  me.  I  shall  find  a  way  to 
make  Mother  like  you  again." 

Shaun  smiled.     "Don't  try!"  he  said. 

' '  I  will  try,  and  if  I  don 't  succeed — whether  I  succeed 
or  not — I  will  never,  never  give  you  up." 

"I  should  think  not!"  said  Peter. 

She  nodded  to  him,  determinedly.  ' '  I  deserve  that ! ' ' 
she  said. 

"It's  a  good  thing  I'm  going  away,"  declared  Shaun, 
in  a  cross  voice,  "or  all  my  work  would  be  spoiled." 
But  he  was  pleased.  "Night-night!  Time  you  children 
were  in  bed.  You'll  see  things  less  clearly  when  you 
grow  older  and  perhaps  think  worse  of  Shaun,  but 
you'll  always  love  the  fellow  a  little,  both  of  you?"  he 
added  quaintly,  "Won't  you,  dears?" 

Peter  stepped  to  Cynthia's  side  and  seized  her  wrist 
in  his  great  grip  and  shook  it,  and  she  loved  him  for 
the  pain  he  gave,  glorying  in  his  forgetfulness  of  her. 
"I  should  think  we  will!"  he  cried.  "God  .  .  .  God 
forget  us,  if  we  forget  you!"  During  the  instant  that 
he  hesitated,  suddenly  self-conscious,  Shaun  whipped  up 
his  hat  from  a  chair  by  the  door,  nodded,  smiling,  to 
them  both,  and  went  quietly  out. 


XIX 

LADY  BREMNER  had  mentioned  Peter  by  his  Christian 
name,  not  unkindly,  and  next  day  she  addressed  him  by 
it.  "Good  morning,  Peter!  How  sunburnt  and  well 
you  are  looking!"  Then  when  the  maid  had  left  the 
room  she  said,  "We  need  not  refer  to  what  is  past,  but 
I  think  we  must  discuss  the  future,  or  at  least  the  im- 
mediate future,  for  which  reason  I  told  Rosemary  to  let 
you  come  alone.  Please  be  perfectly  frank  with  me, 'and 
tell  me  where  you  are  thinking  of  living." 

Cynthia  had  warned  him  that  she  could  not  bear  to 
hear  Shaun's  name  spoken.  "A  friend  has  suggested  a 
little  flat  which  he  has  found  over  a  shop  in  Mayfair, " 
he  said.  "Cynthia  received  the  address  this  morning. 
It  could  be  made  very  charming,  we  are  told,  and  is 
certainly  cheap.  "We  want  to  live  very  quietly." 

"That  would  be  near,"  said  Lady  Bremner,  brighten- 
ing. , 

"Yes,  off  Brook  Street.  It  will  not  take  long  to  get 
in  if  we  decide  on  it,  for  he  found  the  landlord  about  to 
decorate  and  persuaded  him  to  do  so  in  accordance  with 
his  own  taste.  And  he  has  furniture  to  dispose  of 
himself." 

"Your  friend  seems  very  capable!"  said  Lady 
Bremner.  "I  hope  his  furniture  would  suit  dear  Rose- 
mary." 

' '  It  would  cost  us  almost  nothing, ' '  said  Peter,  apolo- 
getically. 

"Please  do  not  bind  yourself,  Peter.  I  expect  my 
husband  home  to-day,  and  since  Rosemary  has  chosen 
to  marry  without  a  trousseau,  I  think  he  may  wish  to 
help  with  the  furnishing." 

* '  Thank  you, ' '  said  Peter.  ' '  I  can  furnish,  though.  I 

365 


366  THE  JOYFUL  YEAES 

have  the  money.  Only  it  doesn't  seem  wise  to  spend 
much  at  first." 

' '  I  quite  agree,  and  you  will  not  let  your  pride  stand 
in  the  way  of  Rosemary's  comfort,  I  hope." 

"You  are  very  kind,"  he  murmured. 

"We  are  very  fond  of  our  only  daughter,  and  we 
certainly  wish  to  make  the  best  of  what  has  happened, 
since  it  has  happened.  We  do  not — that  is  to  say,  I 
do  not — greatly  blame  you  for  it;  after  the  manner  in 
which  I  myself  have  been  deceived.  It  was  most  clever 
and  most  treacherous,  and  I  do  not  wonder  that  you  two 
inexperienced  young  people  fell  under  the  same  influ- 
ence. ' ' 

' '  Lady  Bremner !    I  ought  to  say  straight  out ' ' 

"Please  don't!  Rosemary  tells  me  you  are  very  good 
to  her,  Peter,  and  I  wish  to  be  fond  of  you.  Please  let 
me  begin  in  my  own  way.  You  must  understand  that 
the  person  to  whom  I  refer  cannot  be  anything  but  dis- 
tasteful to  me;  and  I,  for  my  part,  realise  that  you 
feel  yourselves  under  many  obligations  to  him.  The 
reason  why  I  have  started  the  question  of  your  home 
and  your  intentions  in  regard  to  furnishing  and  all  that, 
is  simply  that  Rosemary 's  marriage  must  be  announced 
by  us  to-day.  You  surely  must  see  that  she  placed 
herself  as  well  as  her  parents  in  a  difficult  position  by 
what  she  did.  Do  you  feel  that?" 

"Yes." 

"Very  well  then,  Peter.  I  do  not  choose  to  acknowl- 
edge to  all  our  acquaintance  that  she  ran  away  from  her 
father 's  house  and  hid  herself  for  weeks  from  her  mother. 
To  do  so  would  harm  her,  since  many  people — and  they 
the  nicest  of  her  friends — would  find  what  she  did  in- 
excusable. I  am  not  discussing  whether  that  would  be 
right  or  wrong,  I  am  only  saying  that  it  is  so.  It  is 
fair  that  she,  rather  than  we,  should  bear  the  incon- 
venience of  this.  Do  you  not  agree?" 

"I  won't  argue  it,"  said  Peter. 

"The  runaway  marriage  must  appear  in  its  true  light 
as  a  romantic  escapade,  in  which  Mr.  James  bore  his  part. 
For  this  reason  we  cannot  afford  to  break  with  him 


TRANSFORMATION  367 

openly,  although  in  private  I  shall  not  pretend  friend- 
ship, forgiveness,  or  even  toleration.  I  never  mentioned 
your  attachment  to  Rosemary  to  anyone,  but  I  shall  say 
now  that  we  were  becoming  reconciled  to  it  and  that 
you  were  hoping  to  be  married  in  another  year.  "We 
were  conscious  that  you  were  both  getting  tired  of  wait- 
ing, and  might  have  consented  to  an  earlier  marriage, 
and  were  perfectly  well  informed  of  what  you  had  done, 
after  it  was  too  late  to  prevent  it.  That  is  true,  is  it 
not?  You  will  be  blamed  for  being  inconsiderate  to 
us,  and  this  will  be  the  end  of  it  with  most  people, 
when  they  see  that  we  are  all  on  the  friendliest  of 
terms. ' ' 

"I  want  to  do  whatever  is  best  for  Cynthia,"  said 
Peter,  adding  hastily,  ' '  and  I  do  understand  how  beastly 
I've  been  to  you!" 

"Then  it's  settled,"  said  Lady  Bremner,  "and  you 
will  both  dine  with  us  to-night,  I  hope?" 

"Thank  you,  I  would  like  very  much  to  dine  with 
you,  and  I'm  sure  Cynthia  would.  For  the  rest  I  hate 
to  seem  ungracious,  but  I  must  really  talk  over  what 
you  say  with  Cynthia  before  I  give  my  word." 

"Then  do  so  and  return  to  me,  Peter.  Anyone  might 
meet  her ! ' ' 

In  Peter's  private  opinion  it  did  not  become  Lady 
Bremner  to  condemn  the  tortuous  diplomacy  of  Shaun, 
especially  since  he  guessed  who  had  first  suggested  the 
line  of  conduct  to  her  mind.  He  said  as  much  to  Cyn- 
thia, who  asked,  "What  does  it  matter,  dear?  We'd 
better  let  her  do  it.  I  shan't  see  much  of  all  those 
people  now,"  to  which  he  responded,  "I  used  to  think 
it  would  be  easy  to  be  honest  if  one  had  plenty  of 
money ! ' ' 

"I  hate  lies,  too,"  said  the  girl,  and  compressed  her 
lips.  ' '  But  these  are  for  Mummy 's  sake,  not  for  mine. ' ' 

"You  aren't  cross  with  me,  darling?" 

"Mummy  was  very  sweet  to  me  last  night,  and  I  be- 
lieve she'll  be  fond  of  you,  and  she's  frightfully  lonely 
now  that  Alan  is  gone.  You  did  say  that  about  honesty 
rather  nastily,  Peter!  You  know  you  did.  People  won't 


368  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

bother  about  us  after  the  very  first,  and  none  of  them 
will  ask  rude  questions." 

So  Peter  capitulated. 

The  family  dinner  went  off  successfully,  Sir  Everard 
receiving  them  as  though  their  presence  was  a  matter  of 
course;  and  he  managed  to  be  cordial  when  left  alone 
with  Peter.  Cynthia  was  discussing  Phyllis  with  her 
mother  and  defending  the  little  girl  from  the  charge  of 
having  accepted  a  man  twice  her  age  for  his  money.  Not 
that  Phyllis  was  incapable  of  this,  although  she  had 
plenty  of  her  own,  but  Joyce  had  given  a  frank  opinion 
to  the  effect  that  she  was  "really  impressed,"  whatever 
she  might  say,  and  a  good  deal  in  awe  of  him.  Mr. 
Adams  was  described  by  Joyce  as  ' '  a  nice  old  dear  and  a 
great  hunting  man.  That  One  will  have  to  jump  five- 
barred  gates  when  he  gets  a  little  less  cracked  about  her. ' ' 
It  seemed  absurd  to  Cynthia,  the  princess  who  had  re- 
signed her  prospect  of  a  throne,  to  speak  of  a  girl  who 
would  be  so  rich  as  Cousin  Phyllis  marrying  for  mer- 
cenary reasons.  Lady  Bremner  actually  allowed  her- 
self to  be  argued  with  and  talked  down. 

The  two  men  rejoined  the  ladies  at  a  fortunate  mo- 
ment, for  Cynthia  had  just  become  conscious  of  her 
unusual  boldness  and  relapsed  into  silence ;  moreover,  Sir 
Everard  was  saying  "Peter"  as  they  entered  the  room. 
The  young  man  had  reminded  him  of  his  father,  Major 
Middleton,  and  when  Cynthia  saw  Daddy  gazing  at  him 
quite  affectionately  her  heart  warmed  to  her  parents. 
She  began  to  chatter  at  her  gayest,  about  the  flat  which 
she  and  Peter  had  inspected  in  the  afternoon ;  and  how, 
after  Mummy  had  approved,  they  would  take  it ;  and  of 
the  dear,  winding  staircase  and  the  jolly  little  rooms  and 
the  cook  who  was  the  sister  of  the  dairyman  whose  shop 
was  below;  and  how  the  kitchen  was  out  of  the  way 
downstairs  on  the  ground  floor ;  and  how  the  cook  would 
leave  a  good  place  to  come  and  be  near  her  brother,  if 
only  he  might  have  his  meals  in  the  kitchen.  She  seemed 
a  thoroughly  respectable  woman;  and  so  with  a  young 
house-parlourmaid  they  could  manage  beautifully! 
(Shaun  had  investigated  the  credentials  of  the  cook 


TRANSFORMATION  369 

and  already  provided  the  house-parlourmaid.)  Lady 
Bremner  did  not  know  sufficient  of  the  cost  of  such  a 
menage  to  make  her  hold  her  hands  up  in  horror,  and 
she  regarded  two  servants  as  absolutely  essential,  which 
Shaun  had  foreseen.  He  considered  the  amiability  of 
the  parents  and  the  goodwill  of  society  towards  the 
young  people  infinitely  more  important  than  the  saving 
of  capital.  Cynthia  had  amused  him  by  her  mingled 
emotions,  as  described  by  Peter,  of  relief  and  disap- 
pointment when  she  found  out  that  they  were  not  to 
starve  in  a  garret,  and  still  more  by  her  joyful  ex- 
clamation on  mounting  into  the  flat,  "Oh,  but  Shaun 
dear,  it  is  a  garret  after  all ! " 

And  now  as  she  laughed  and  talked  with  her  parents, 
in  the  peacock-blue  evening  dress  which  she  had  worn  at 
the  theatre  on  the  night  of  their  engagement,  privations 
and  poverty  were  far  from  her  mind. 

"I've  seen  that  dress  before,  haven't  I?"  said  Sir 
Everard.  "I  like  you  in  those  quaint  things." 

"Liberty's  frocks  never  go  out  of  date,"  said  Cyn- 
thia. "Mummy  wanted  me  to  have  my  newest  and 
loveliest  so  that  Marie  should  not  guess  that  I  minded 
wearing  it  out  for  you  and  Mummy,  and  I  don't;  but 
I  wanted  this  one." 

"You  want  many  things  now,  Rose!"  remarked  Sir 
Everard  in  a  severe  tone.  Lady  Bremner  chimed  in, 
"It  is  not  very  pleasant,  your  being  obliged  to  fetch 
your  clothes  in  this  way." 

The  atmosphere  of  the  room  instantly  changed.  Poor 
Cynthia's  lower  lip  trembled  and  she  said  meekly,  "I 
knew  you  liked  it,  Daddy,  and  Peter  does,  too. ' ' 

* '  Can  we  depend  on  Marie  ? ' '  Sir  Everard  inquired  of 
his  wife.  "I  confess  I  had  forgotten  her." 

"Oh  yes,  Everard.     She's  devoted  to  us." 

"I've  been  admiring  some  of  your  work  to-day,"  said 
Sir  Everard,  turning  to  Peter.  "I'm  glad  to  see  that 
you  exercise  your  satire  on  behalf  of  the  Unionist  cause. ' ' 

"I'm  thankful  I  get  the  chance  to,  sir,"  said  Peter. 

Immediately  Cynthia  bubbled  over  with  the  mirthful 
and  exciting  story  of  the  meeting  with  the  painter,  whose 


370  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

name,  which  she  did  not  reveal  at  first,  commanded 
instant  unwavering  attention.  Peter  tried  to  stop  her, 
being  convinced  that  Shaun's  silence  on  this  subject  had 
an  unsatisfactory  meaning,  either  that  he  suspected  a 
hoax  or  perhaps  that  the  Great  Man  was  notoriously 
fickle,  but  Cynthia  would  not  be  silenced,  nor  did  Sir 
Everard  appear  to  doubt ;  on  the  contrary,  he  uttered  a 
few  simple  words  of  congratulation.  After  this,  Cynthia 
was  irrepressible.  She  was  in  wild  spirits,  and  carried 
everything  before  her,  playing  and  singing,  leaning  over 
Daddy  to  stroke  his  moustache,  even  kissing  her  mother 
in  public.  She  was  not  to  be  recognised  as  the  quiet 
Rosemary  of  her  parents'  recollections,  which  made  the 
parting  easier  when  the  time  came.  Not  that  her 
laughter  and  merriment  displeased  them,  but  because 
they  were  unfamiliar. 


XX 

JULY  was  beginning  when  Peter  and  Cynthia  went  forth 
to  furnish,  sometimes  accompanied  by  Lady  Bremner; 
less  frequently  by  Shaun,  who  was  busy  making  his  own 
arrangements  for  departure.  He  was  taking  his  pictures, 
his  books  and  his  writing-table,  and  the  chair  in  which 
Doris  used  to  sit ;  his  kitchen  gear  he  gave  to  Peter.  The 
rest  of  his  well-worn  furniture  he  gave  to  his  landlady  in 
the  shop  below.  It  had  fulfilled  his  purpose,  served  him 
well,  and  extracted  a  cheque  from  Sir  Everard  in  order 
that  Rosemary  should  not  be  reminded  of  'that  person.' 
His  mother's  annuity  had  died  with  her,  and  the  sale 
of  her  goods  had  provided  for  her  old  servant  Martha, 
as  she  had  directed.  Shaun  had  been  living  to  a  great 
extent  on  his  savings  during  the  last  few  years,  which 
had  been  almost  barren  of  work — or  rather  of  achieve- 
ment. He  was  positively  compelled  to  return  to  journal- 
ism. A  few  months  ago  he  might  have  arranged  to 
husband  his  resources  until  he  could  accumulate  a  suf- 
ficiency of  reviewing  to  keep  him  alive  in  London,  but 
he  had  been  reckless  and  now  that  was  impossible :  since, 
therefore,  he  must  return  to  indiscriminate  writing,  he 
preferred  to  do  so  in  another  country.  Also  he  was 
not  sorry  to  leave  Cynthia  to  her  parents,  for  the  re- 
sponsibility of  separating  her  from  them  had  weighed 
heavily  on  his  mind  through  several  sleepless  nights 
and  more  than  one  anxious  day,  and  the  complete  suc- 
cess of  his  manoeuvring  had  not  come  altogether  without 
surprise.  He  felt  it  would  be  tempting  Providence  to 
remain  longer  on  the  scene,  as  undoubtedly  his  presence 
constituted  a  danger  to  her  peace  of  mind.  For  this  rea- 
son he  hastened  the  departure  already  decided  upon  and 
resolved  to  sail  before  the  appointment  he  had  accepted 

371 


372  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

was  actually  vacant,  so  soon  in  fact  as  he  had  intro- 
duced Peter  to  the  men  it  was  necessary  he  should  meet. 

They  spent  two  whole  days  together,  making  a  grand 
tour  of  editors,  and  Peter  discovered  that  to  be  son- 
in-law  to  a  knight  and  to  own  an  address  in  Mayfair 
did  not  make  him  less  interesting  in  their  eyes.  He 
was  amused  by  the  artfulness  with  which  Shaun  brought 
forward  the  information,  but — as  the  latter  was  glad  to 
observe — mingled  with  his  amusement  was  even  more 
annoyance  than  he  would  have  felt  before  he  went 
away.  Evidently  the  influence  of  Cynthia  had  been  for 
good.  Peter's  protest,  "I  say,  Shaun,  you  wouldn't  do 
that  for  yourself,  you  know,"  having  been  met  by  a 
cool,  "Certainly  not,"  there  seemed  nothing  more  to 
be  said,  and  the  round  was  marked  by  the  repetition 
of  the  incident  in  every  office.  By  the  end,  however, 
Peter  had  collected  orders  for  over  thirty  pounds  worth 
of  work. 

" That's  the  way  to  success,  my  young  one!"  said 
Shaun.  "First,  good  stuff  with  technical  skill  behind 
it;  second,  a  market  unspoiled  by  immature  efforts; 
third,  an  old  hand  to  introduce  you;  fourth,  a  pleasant 
manner  of  your  own ;  fifth,  the  discovery  of  relatives  of 
position  and  an  address  in  Mayfair.  Keep  your  head 
screwed  on,  and  you  can't  fail.  Here  are  a  few  rules. 

"Always  send  in  ordered  stuff  long  before  the  last 
moment. 

"Never  call  at  a  publishing  office  except  on  business. 

"Never  talk  politics  or  professional  matters  in  public. 
Don't  tell  your  prices.  Don't  discuss  people. 

"I've  never  talked  to  you  about  your  landscape  work, 
Peter;  and  I  suppose  that's  why  you  haven't  cross- 
questioned  me  concerning  the  Great  Man  you  wrote 
about.  He  is  genuine.  I  mean  the  incident  is  character- 
istic. I  do  not  doubt  that  he  will  do  as  he  promised.  I 
certainly  do  not  doubt  his  judgment  and  I  am  sure 
now — probably  far  surer  than  you  have  dared  to  be — 
that  you  must  have  an  unusual  gift  for  such  work.  I 
expect  he  was  struck  by  your  drawing,  as  I  was,  but  you 
must  have  colour  and  an  instinctive  feeling  for  com- 


TRANSFORMATION  373 

position  and  a  lot  behind  that,  to  have  made  him  say 
what  he  did!  If  you  had  independent  means  and  un- 
limited time  before  you,  old  boy,  I'd  throw  up  my  hat 
for  you,  and  as  it  is  you'd  be  mad  to  neglect  the  op- 
portunity; but  for  God's  sake,  or  rather  for  Cynthia's, 
don't  give  up  this  connection  I've  made  for  you!  In 
no  circumstances  give  journalism  the  go-by." 

He  paused,  and  Peter  asked  why. 

"Because  you  aren't  the  man  to  watch  your  wife 
losing  her  youth  through  poverty,  without  doing  bad 
work  in  consequence.  You're  a  conventional  kind  of 
a  kid,  Peter,  not  an  artist  in  temperament  at  all;  you'd 
always  put  Cynthia  before  your  work.  Oh,  I  don 't  want 
it  otherwise !  No  one  who  really  knows  could  ever  wish 
any  one  they  loved  to  be  an  artist.  How  can  they? 
You  don't  know  the  sufferings,  mental  and  physical, 
which  it  entails  on  a  poor  man.  I  want  you  to  be  a 
successful  journalist.  Why,  hang  it  all,  if  you  develop 

the  sensitive  side  of  yourself Don't  do  it!  You 

make  yourself  liable  to  all  sorts  of  imaginative  posses- 
sions. An  author's  got  to  be  in  love  with  his  heroine  if 
he  wants  to  make  the  reader  feel  her  charm.  And  there 
are  far  more  difficult  things  .  .  .  darker  things  ...  I 
tell  you,  man,  to  be  an  artist  you  've  got  to  suffer,  suffer, 
suffer,  and  God  will  see  that  you  do,  if  there's  the  true 
stuff  in  you,  and  I  don 't  want  that  for  you  and  Cynthia. ' ' 

"But,  Shaun,  isn't  a  painter  different?" 

"An  artist  of  any  kind  has  got  to  leave  his  wife  and 
cleave  to  his  work.  Or  he  '11  be  torn  asunder  between  the 
two."  Shaun  suddenly  became  conscious  that  he  was 
being  unfaithful  to  the  truth  which  was  in  him,  and 
the  face  of  Doris  rose  before  him,  mutely  reproachful. 
"Didn't  I  love  to  give  myself?"  her  great  eyes  seemed 
to  ask.  .  .  .  He  changed  the  subject  with  abruptness. 

"The  best  liars  are  kind-hearted,  honest  people,"  he 
said,  "like  me.  What  does  Sir  Everard  say?" 

"About  you?  Not  much,  but  I  believe  he  thinks  you 
very  clever." 

Shaun  laughed.  "He  ought  to,  although  I  misjudged 
his  wife!  I  undervalued  Lady  Bremner;  there's  more 


374  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

pluck  and  self-restraint  in  the  family  than  I  thought. 
So  much  the  better,  Peter.  Cynthia  will  need  all  she's 
inherited  if  you  become  a  painter." 

"Shaun,  I  promise  not  to  be  a  fool,  at  least  I'll  try  all 
I  know  not  to  be." 

f  That's  right.    How  do  you  get  on  with  Lady  B.  ?" 

"I  like  her  again." 

"Yes,  and  you  won't  try  to  be  too  fond  of  her  now, 
which  is  the  usual  mistake  of  children-in-law.  Well, 
Peter,  I  'm  off  in  a  week ! ' ' 

The  home  was  complete  in  that  time,  in  spite  of  a  day 's 
interference,  miscalled  aid,  from  Phyllis,  who,  however, 
consented  to  forgive  darling  Rosie  her  secrecy  in  regard 
to  her  wedding.  Lady  Bremner,  although  afraid  of 
Phyllis 's  indiscretion,  would  not  make  a  direct  appeal  to 
her  to  assist  the  account  which  was  already  in  circulation, 
and  it  was  left  to  Cynthia  to  explain ;  but  That  One  was 
so  wrapped  up  in  her  own  affiairs  that  she  had  almost 
forgotten  that  Rosie 's  engagement  was  ever  under  a 
cloud.  She  had  not  often  been  at  the  Bremners'  during 
the  last  year.  The  only  other  possible  sources  of  danger 
were  Laurence  Man  and  Helen  Taliesin.  The  first  in- 
deed might  be  disregarded,  as  he  was  known  to  be  an  un- 
successful suitor,  and  was  besides  not  the  kind  of  man  to 
take  social  risks  in  order  to  gratify  private  malice ;  but 
Helen's  honest  bluntness  might  have  been  more  danger- 
ous, had  she  been  in  the  way  of  going  much  into  society. 
As  it  was,  there  was  little  to  be  feared.  There  would 
have  been  nothing  had  Alan  been  in  correspondence  with 
her,  which  Lady  Bremner  thought  was  not  the  case. 

Shaun  declined  to  be  seen  off  from  Euston ;  as  a  com- 
promise he  consented  to  be  their  first  guest  at  dinner 
the  night  before.  Cynthia  wore  her  prettiest,  freshest 
dinner  dress,  a  dear  white  clinging  one  with  loose  white 
sleeves,  very  simple  and  very  lovely,  suiting  her  refined 
beauty  to  perfection,  and  what  a  hostess  the  girl  made ! 
"You  11  be  Peter's  fortune,"  he  told  her. 

"I  want  to  be  that,"  she  replied.  "Shaun,  you  are 
kind  to  me ! "  How  bright  her  eyes  were !  How  vivid 
the  delicate  pink  of  her  cheeks  and  the  richer  scarlet  of 


TRANSFORMATION  375 

her  lips  and  the  glory  of  her  hair.  She  was  a  resplen- 
dent picture  to-night  of  what  an  English  lady  can  be 
with  youth  and  happiness  after  a  holiday  in  the  open 
air.  "Would  people  care  for  a  very  plain  dinner  like 
this?  People  who  could  help  him?  Dare  I  ask  them? 
That 's  what  I  want  to  know. ' ' 

"The  dinner  suits  the  flat.  It's  artistic  and  it's  sim- 
ple. I  see  one  or  two  things  in  the  room  on  the  conven- 
tional side,  which  you  don't  want  insisted  on, — but  I 
suppose  they  are  gifts."  Cynthia  exchanged  glances 
with  Peter.  "Should  they  remain,  I'd  introduce  a  de- 
liberately decorative  element  into  your  dressing, 
Cynthia,  when  you  entertain  at  home;  for  the  sake  of 
balance.  But  the  dinner's  perfect.  May  I  ask,  is  it 
impertinent,  but  did  the  wine  come  from  Portman 
Square?"  She  nodded.  "I'm  relieved.  It's  too  good 
for  your  income,  my  dears.  Oh,  in  that  case,  persevere 
and  prosper!" 

It  was  early  in  July,  and  all  eyes  were  then  directed 
towards  Ireland.  Inevitably  the  conversation  turned  to 
politics,  and  Shaun  said,  "I  hear  ancestral  voices 
prophesying  war.  The  thin  voices  of  Chatham,  Burke 
and  Pitt  come  to  me  faintly  across  the  tumult  of  the 
passionate  outcries  of  the  living.  I  suppose  it's  Civil 
War  that  I  hear  approaching,  rumbling  with  screams 
and  clangour  down  the  avenue  of  Time.  The  echo  of 
cannon  and  the  smell  of  slaughter  are  in  the  air.  Peter, 
don't  get  drawn  in!  And  remember  that  Home  Rule 
must  come,  for  the  Radicals  are  pledged  too  deeply  to 
withdraw !  Don 't  oppose  bitterly,  and  don 't  be  flippant 
in  your  work.  If  your  insight  is  kind  as  well  as  wise, 
some  day  you  will  get  on  the  staff  of  Punch,  and  then 
you  will  be  able  to  paint  four  days  out  of  seven. ' ' 

"I'm  not  wise!"  said  Peter,  astonished. 

"You're  simple  enough  to  be  wise!"  said  Shaun, 
drily.  ' '  And  so  long  as  you  don 't  get  your  head  turned 
or  let  the  Beautiful  get  hers,  I  expect  you  '11  grow  wiser 
and  wiser.  Particularly  with  me  out  of  the  way.  My 
vice  is  cleverness.  I  must  be  off  in  a  moment,  but 
before  I  go  here 's  a  warning  for  you,  Cynthia.  In  your 


376  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

pre-marriage  days  you  took  it  a  little  too  much  for 
granted  that  your  lovers  could  become  yours  friends. 
Don't  make  that  mistake  now!" 

"I  wouldn't!"  said  Cynthia,  indignantly. 

"That's  all  right,"  said  Shaun. 

"I  should  tick  them  off,  as  Phyllis  says.  Fancy  an 
engaged  girl  using  slang  like  that!" 

' '  There 's  a  married  woman  doing  it  here, ' '  said  Shaun, 
rising.  He  looked  tired  to-night,  and  he  spoke  in  a  tired 
tone. 

Peter  and  Cynthia  with  the  same  impulse  came  and 
stood  in  front  of  him.  "Aren't  you  satisfied  with  us 
now  that  you  are  going?"  cried  the  latter,  a  sad  little 
tremor  in  her  voice.  "Are  you  afraid  for  us?" 

"I'm  always  afraid  for  people  who  aren't  in  bad 
trouble.  Now  it's  good-bye,  you  children.  Don't  worry 
about  Shaun,  for  the  Yanks  will  take  good  care  of  him. 
They  like  fellows  with  plenty  of  zip  and  spuzz  in  their 
work,  and  I've  a  happy  knack  of  being  hysterical  in 
print !  I  can  get  warm-blooded  facts  down  on  the  ground 
and  bite  and  worry  'em.  I  tell  you  I  was  somebody 
over  there  in  the  old  days.  Peter  will  see  me  out,  I 
hope;  Cynthia,  good-bye."  He  held  out  his  hand  with 
a  firm  gesture.  There  were  tears  in  his  eyes.  "Quick, 
child!"  he  said. 

Stooping  swiftly,  she  caught  at  his  hand  and  dragged 
it  to  her  lips,  then  started  back,  swaying  erect.  "I 
haven't  been  all  I  might  have  been  to  you,  Shaun,"  she 
sighed.  "I  haven't  been  half  worthy  of  you " 

"Rot!"  he  cut  her  short.  "We're  friends.  Shake 
hands,  Cynthia.  I  daresay  I  shan't  be  long  abroad. 
Good-bye."  He  turned  and  strode  out  of  the  room, 
followed  by  Peter.  Neither  spoke  until  the  street  door 
was  reached,  then  Shaun  said,  "No  need  for  words 
between  us.  Besides,  I  haven't  any.  Good  luck,  old 
man." 

"Good  luck,"  repeated  Peter,  gravely.  He  held  out 
his  hand. 


XXI 

SINCE  the  farewell  dinner  two  days  had  elapsed,  spent  by 
both  Peter  and  Cynthia  in  hard  continuous  work.  One 
drew  from  morning  to  night,  while  the  other  wrestled 
with  the  housekeeping  and  formed  a  routine  for  herself 
and  the  maids.  Although  untrained,  Cynthia  possessed 
a  fine  power  of  application  to  detail  besides  inheriting 
much,  if  not  all,  of  her  mother's  talent  for  house-manage- 
ment, and  she  had  good  material  to  work  upon,  as  the 
maids  were  experienced  ancf  trustworthy.  Accordingly 
she  did  well,  and  the  servants  decided  that  she  would  be 
a  kind  and  considerate  mistress. 

Cynthia  brought  up  the  morning  letters  herself,  hav- 
ing been  out  for  a  run  before  breakfast,  and  the  first 
that  Peter  opened  left  him  staring.  Then  he  re-read  it 
carefully  from  begining  to  end.  "What's  the  matter?" 
asked  Cynthia. 

"Aunt  Janet's  in  town,  and  wants  to  see  me." 

"Hurray!     More  money  for  Peter!" 

"Perhaps  she  wants  it  back, "suggested Peter, seriously. 

Cynthia  said,  with  a  laughing  tremor  in  her  voice, 
"Perhaps  she  may." 

He  smiled.  ' '  All  right  then !  Girls  know  such  a  lot. 
I'm  to  go  any  morning  to  the  Windsor  Hotel,  so  unless 
you  want  me  to-day  I'll  get  it  off  my  mind." 

"I  always  want  you,"  said  Cynthia,  truthfully,  "but 
you  had  better  go,  dear." 

He  was  back  in  less  than  an  hour.  Pale  and  dis- 
turbed, he  hurried  upstairs  and  found  Cynthia  engaged 
in  hanging  curtains,  green  with  a  silver  pattern  on  them, 
in  the  attic  room.  "Do  you  like  these  with  the  misty 
grey  walls?"  she  called  to  him.  "Oh,  Peter,  what  is 
it?"  And  she  hastily  got  down  from  the  step-ladder. 

377 


378  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

"I  don't  know  yet.  I've  been  a  fool,  I  think !  Where's 
the  letter  from  the  Bath  lawyers?  She  wants  it!" 

"You  had  it  at  Radgells,  dear.  Why,  what's  the 
matter?  You  didn't  speak  of  it,  of  course!" 

' '  She 's  sharp  as  a  needle.   She  saw  I  was  grateful ' ' 

"I  should  hope  so!"  said  Cynthia. 

" — And  she  wanted  to  know  why." 

"Well,  of  course  you  had  to  tell  her.  You  put  it 
away  in  a  morocco  pocket  letter-case,  Peter,  I  remember ! 
What  is  she  like,  then?" 

"So  I  did!  Thanks.  That's  in  my  trunk  on  the 
landing.  Are  you  coming?  She's  like  Dickens 's  Miss 
Pross — in  A  Tale  of  Two  Cities,  is  it? — rough  and 
sturdy  and  blunt,  and  I  daresay  an  uncommonly  good 
sort.  Only  she's  got  a  precious  lot  to  say  for  herself — 
unlike  Miss  Pross,  who  held  her  tongue.  I  say,  Starry, 
I  'm  in  an  awful  fix  ...  I  wish  I  could  find  the  thing ! ' ' 

"Here,  let  me  look.    Doesn't  she  like  you,  Peter?" 

"Well,  she  wouldn't,  you  see,  after  having  trouble 
with  Father,  and  she's  frightfully  keen  on  National 
Service  and  soldiers  generally — and  I'm  not  a  Terri- 
torial. She  can't  forgive  that,  as  I'm  a  good  rifle-shot. 
But  that  isn't  the  bother.  .  .  .  Oh,  thanks.  Yes,  it  is 
'West,  Hawkins  and  Bere.'  I  knew  I  couldn't  be  mis- 
taken. Starry,  I  don't  believe  she  ever  meant  to  give 
this  money." 

"Come  into  the  bedroom,"  said  Cynthia.  "Dyson 
can  hear." 

Peter  suddenly  showed  himself  irritable.  "Where 
was  Dyson,  then?"  he  demanded. 

"I  heard  her  step  below.  Peter,  did  Aunt  Janet  give 
it?" 

"That's  just  what  I'm  afraid  of.  There  may  be  some 
awful  mistake." 

"There  can't  be,  if  those  are  her  solicitors." 

"She  snapped  at  me  about  the  name,  but  I've  got  it 
right." 

"How  snapped?" 

"She  asked  in  a  sort  of  incredulous  tone,  'West, 
Hawkins  and  Bere?'  I  thought  I'd  got  the  name 


TRANSFORMATION  379 

wrong.  She  does  nag  that  way,  tripping  up  a  fellow. 
I  must  be  off,  Kiddy.  She's  waiting.  Don't  make  such 
eyes  at  me ! " 

"Peter!   Peter!   Peter!   Don't  you  see?" 

"I  see  a  beauty  darling,  a  sweet-eyes,  a  shining 
Princess,  a  star-girl,  my  own  wife!  What  else?" 

"They  aren't  her  solicitors.  Shaun  gave  this  money!" 

Peter,  starting  back,  collapsed  into  a  sitting  position 
upon  the  bed ;  and  Cynthia  suddenly  giggled,  as  he 
sprang  up  again  like  a  jack-in-the-box. 

"I  didn't  know  the  bed  was  there!"  he  exclaimed, 
staring  at  it  in  amazement.  She  tittered  hysterically. 
"...  Shaun,  darling !  Shaun !  .  .  .  By  Jove,  I  believe 
you're  right!" 

"That's  why  he  had  to  go  away.  He  had  no  money 
left!" 

"Oh,  I  say,  what  a  mutton-headed  fool  I've  been! 
"What  a  hopeless  ass!  I  might  have  known  it  wasn't 
Aunt  Janet!  Poor,  dear  Shaun!  And  how  rottenly 
ungrateful  I  must  have  seemed!" 

"Peter  darling,  you  must  go  to  her,  if  she's  waiting. 
You  haven 't  been  ungrateful ;  don 't  think  about  it  until 
you  come  back.  Please,  Peter!"  And  she  persuaded 
him  downstairs  and  into  the  taxi. 

When  he  arrived  home  for  the  second  time,  one  sight 
of  his  face  was  enough.  "Oh,  my  Peter!  She  was 
horrid  to  you!  What  a  hateful  woman  she  must  be! 
Come  to  me,  dear." 

In  silence  Peter  let  himself  be  made  much  of;  and 
then  he  gave  a  long  sigh  and  began  to  look  less  miserable, 
and  at  length  found  his  voice,  after  another  mournful 
sigh.  "You  are  good  to  a  chap!"  he  exclaimed.  "I 
don 't  know  how  you  learnt  all  those  pretty  ways  you  've 
got!  She  wasn't  rude  exactly.  She  was  satirically  in- 
quisitive, and  I  had  to  answer  half  a  hundred  questions 
about  Shaun.  She  made  me  tell  her  every  blessed  thing 
about  him!  I  was  an  ass;  it  didn't  strike  me  until 
afterwards  that  she  hadn't  any  earthly  right  to  cross- 
examine  me.  Shaun  had  never  used  her  name,  you 
see!  But  she  seemed  friendly  enough  towards  him. 


380  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

And  she  wasn't  interested  in  me  at  all.  Why  do  you 
think  she  sent  for  me  in  the  first  instance?  Simply 
because  she  wanted  some  National  Service  pamphlets 
distributed  in  the  Great  Company  offices!" 

"But  how  did  she  get  our  address?  I  thought  of 
that  while  you  were  away." 

"She  hadn't  got  it.  The  letter  was  forwarded  from 
my  old  diggings  in  Church  Street.  She  seemed  terrific- 
ally amused  to  hear  of  my  being  married.  Cynthia,  I 
can 't  get  on  with  business  women !  She 's  got  a  fright- 
fully rough  tongue  when  she  pleases  and  yet  sits  there 
expecting  every  bit  of  deference  and  attention  that  a 
man  ever  gave  to  a  woman!  I  don't  know  how  to 
treat  her.  I  don't  believe  Father  ever  did!  She  says 
she's  not  coming  to  see  you  and  she  doesn't  want  to 
meet  your  '  swell  relations, '  but  if  you  've  ,  got  pluck 
enough  to  go  to  see  her  by  yourself, — she  doesn't  want 
me  again, — then  she'll  be  very  pleased.  She  told  me 
to  repeat  her  exact  words. ' ' 

"  I  'd  better  go ! "  said  Cynthia.  ' '  Just  think  of  Shaun, 
though!  Isn't  he  a  wingless  angel?  Just  fancy  his 
saving  us  that  way!  It  was  because  he  encouraged  us 
to  marry,  I  suppose.  You  talk  about  yourself,  dear, 
when  you  were  always  perfectly  sweet  to  him;  it's  I 
who  ought  to  be  ashamed!  I,  who  ought  to  be — to  be 
punished  in  some  way." 

"No,  it  isn't,"  said  Peter,  sturdily. 

"Dear  Shaun!  And  doesn't  he  love  a  deep-laid 
plot?" 

' '  I  don 't  agree  there.  I  believe  he  would  much  rather 
be  outspoken." 

"We  certainly  would  not  have  accepted  the  money." 

"Not  if  I  'd  known  it  was  the  last  of  his  capital !  And 
now  he  won't  take  it  back." 

"I  don't  expect  he  will." 

Nor  did  he,  although  they  pleaded  movingly. 

The  next  visit  that  Peter  paid  was  more  successful, 
but  it  was  not  to  his  aunt,  who  had  departed  after  a 
bluntly  approving  criticism  of  Cynthia's  appearance  and 
manners,  delivered  first  to  her  face,  then  in  the  form  of 


TRANSFORMATION  381 

a  note  to  Peter,  precisely  as  though  he  had  asked  for  her 
opinion !  No,  this  time  he  turned  his  footsteps  towards 
Chelsea,  lingered  down  Tite  Street,  and,  summoning  all 
his  courage  as  he  came  out  on  to  the  Embankment, 
walked  straight  to  one  of  the  big  houses  which  look  upon 
the  river,  and  rang  the  bell.  With  startling  suddenness 
a  footman  opened  the  door,  as  though  he  had  been 
standing  on  the  mat  awaiting  Peter's  arrival.  .  .  . 
"Would  you  accompany  me  this  way,  sir?"  said  the 
footman,  and  he  led  Peter  up  flights  and  flights  of  wide 
stairs  at  a  brisk,  athletic  pace,  so  that  Peter  had  no 
opportunity  on  this  occasion  to  admire  the  frescoes  on 
the  walls  and  the  statues  on  the  landings.  ' '  If  you  will 
be  so  kind  as  to  make  yourself  at  home,  sir!"  said  his 
guide,  showing  him  into  an  enormous  studio,  which  cov- 
ered the  greater  portion  of  the  top  floor  of  the  house; 
and  there  he  was  left  for  half  an  hour  or  more,  perfectly 
happy  in  gazing  at  the  many  beautiful  things  strewn 
about  in  a  disorder  that  was  astonishing  to  him  after 
the  formality  of  the  hall  and  staircase. 

' '  Here  you  are,  then ! ' '  exclaimed  the  painter,  entering 
in  a  tremendous  hurry.  "Very  sorry  to  have  kept  you 
waiting.  Didn  't  he  tell  you  to  make  yourself  at  home  ? 
I  thought  you  'd  have  been  at  work !  There  are  plenty  of 
tools  about.  I  like  a  lot  of  servants  and  I  keep  the 
lower  part  of  the  house  for  them,  and  to  give  dinner 
parties  in,  but  here  one  can  always  find  anything  one 
wants — in  reason,  you  know,  Middleton!  For  instance, 
I've  never  been  able  to  get  hold  of  a  Zuloaga,  and  my 
Velasquez  is  a  little  less  than  doubtful!  The  experts 
don't  doubt  it,  but  I  do.  There's  the  Spanish  school 
piled  over  against  the  wall  in  that  corner.  You'll  find 
Velasquez  in  the  middle  if  you  want  him.  The  David 
Coxes  and  Constables  are  here,  and  the  Barbizon  people 
over  here.  Now  let  me  see  your  stuff !  Shove  the  port- 
folio on  this  rack  and  get  out  of  the  light  for  ten  min- 
utes. I  believe  there's  a  piano  under  those  tapestries — 

if  you  are  musical !"     He  pondered.     "I  had  a 

Bluthner  once;  yes,  it  must  be  there!  I  don't  mind 
noise,  only  don't  come  near  me  for  a  while." 


382  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

Peter  obediently  retired  to  the  other  end  of  the  room 
and  began  to  enjoy  himself  among  the  David  Coxes, 
while  the  singular  genius  who  was  entertaining  him 
turned  over  his  sketches,  occasionally  tearing  one  up. 
Peter  started  each  time  he  heard  the  r-rip  of  paper,  but 
he  durst  not  interfere. 

"Are  you  P.  M.,  the  cartoonist?"  called  the  painter. 

"Yes,"  said  Peter,  flattered.    "Why?" 

' '  Because  if  you  make  your  living  by  it,  I  '11  save  this 
black-and-white  sketch,  which  otherwise  I  should  de- 
stroy. I  don't  want  to  see  your  filthy  commercial 
drawings,  my  boy." 

"I  didn't  know "  began  Peter. 

"Yes.  Clever  enough  journalism.  I'll  pass  it  by. 
Now  look.  These  you  can  keep  and  I'll  show  you  the 
errors  in  them.  Several  I  had  to  tear  up ;  I  cannot  bear 
and  will  not  have  sentiment  in  landscape  painting. 
Nothing  here  is  really  worth  keeping,  of  course;  but  I 
daresay  these  may  be  useful.  You  can  come  whenever 
you  like  and  when  I  go  abroad  you  can  follow  me.  Will 
that  do  ?  The  run  of  the  place,  whether  I  'm  here  or  not. 
Hints  that  no  one  else  in  England  can  give — and  devil- 
ish few  in  Europe, — and  I  beg  that  you'll  use  my  col- 
ours! You've  been  using  cheap  colours,  and  you 
mustn  't  do  that,  my  boy !  You  really  mustn  't !  You  '11 
find  them  in  the  cabinet  over  there.  Put  down  anything 
you  want  on  the  list  pinned  up  on  the  door  and  send  a 
man  out  if  you  want  it  at  once.  I  give  those  men  of  mine 
a  large  hall  to  stand  about  in  and  plenty  of  liveries,  and 
in  exchange  for  that  they  keep  my  tubes  filled.  Oils! 
Now  please  don't  vex  me,  boy,  by  wanting  to  work  in 
oils  for  years  to  come  yet ;  and  I  hope,  never ! ' '  Because 
it  does  not  strike  me  that  your  gift  is  for  them. ' ' 

Peter  felt  that  he  was  expected  to  reply,  and  although 
a  trifle  sad  at  the  loss  of  his  longed-for  lessons  in  oil 
painting,  said  bravely,  ' '  All  right,  sir,  thank  you !  But 
do  you  think  I'm  worth  your  trouble?" 

' '  You  won 't  be  any  trouble. ' ' 

' '  But  are  you  sure  you  won 't  be  disappointed  in  me  ? " 

"Certainly.     You  are  worth  teaching." 


TRANSFORMATION  383 

"But  are  you  sure  you're  right,  sir?  I  simply  dare 
not  hope  it!" 

' '  I  am  never  wrong.  I  never  dismiss  a  servant  and  I 
do  not  expect  to  part  with  my  first  pupil.  Make  no 
misunderstanding,  boy!  I  help  you  for  the  love  of 
painting,  not  to  gratify  a  good-natured  impulse,  and  most 
emphatically  not  for  the  sake  of  your  ~beaux  yeux  I  You 
may  be  a  regular  young  cub  for  all  I  know,  though  you 
seem  a  modest,  harmless  sort  of  a  youth.  That 's  nothing 
to  me.  You  don't  exist  for  me  outside  your  work,  and 
you  'd  better  not  try  to,  for  I  want  to  know  nothing  about 
your  private  affairs !  What  I  respect  about  you,  boy,  is 
this.  I  found  you  just  married  to  a  beautiful  and  charm- 
ing girl — hold  your  tongue !  I  don 't  wish  ever  to  see  her 
face  again, — a  first-rate  figure  model  as  well,  I  should  say ; 
and  there  you  were,  scraping  moor  on  paper  with  a  flint 
arrowhead,  as  an  ancient  Briton  might  have  seen  it! 
You  were  drawing  Moor.  Not  thoughts  about  moor  or 
impressions  of  moor  or  photography  of  moor,  but  plain 
Moor,  on  which  a  sun  can  shine,  or  a  wind  blow,  or  dark- 
ness fall.  And  you  had  not  put  your  young  wife  in  the 
foreground  or  the  middle  distance  or  any  damned  place 
at  all!  I  respect  that.  I  saw  there  was  something  in 
you,  and  I'm  never  wrong!  "What  is  more,  I  saw  you 
were  a  man  I  could  help;  you  might  have  had  equal 
talent  or  twice  as  much  talent,  and  not  been  that.  But 
you  are,  and  now  you  shall  listen  and  begin  to  unlearn." 

Whereupon  he  took  the  sketches  which  had  survived 
and  turned  them  over  one  by  one  with  comments  which 
appeared  to  entranced  Peter  as  the  most  wonderfully 
helpful  that  a  human  being  could  have  uttered;  as 
indeed  they  may  have  been,  since  the  man  was  a  master, 
the  possessor,  in  addition  to  the  power  of  accomplishment, 
of  a  true  critical  genius.  All  at  once  he  made  a  rush  for 
brushes  and  colours,  found  them  after  emptying  the 
contents  of  the  cabinet  upon  the  floor,  plunged  into  the 
dressing-room  for  water,  and  with  a  sudden  air  of  calm- 
ness and  patience  which  came  to  him  as  soon  as  he  took 
up  a  palette,  began  to  work  upon  j;he  last  drawing.  "I 
will  show  you, ' '  he  said  ..."  that  I  am  right  .  .  .  that 


384  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

although  I  paint  in  oils  I  am  no  fool  ...  in  water  col- 
our !  There !  Give  me  a  bit  of  paper.  I  will  show  you 
the  cloud  that  you  saw ;  your  cloud  had  the  light  behind 
it."  Peter  was  enthralled. 

"Now  I  must  go,"  said  the  painter,  consulting  an 
enormous  gun-metal  watch,  which  he  lugged  out  of  an 
inner  pocket.  ' '  I  bought  this  at  an  auction,  one  of  those 
where  they  sell  watches  and  fools,  but  I  was  not  a  fool. 
I  had  a  curiosity  to  see  if  anybody  would  pickmy  pocket. ' ' 

"Did  they?" 

"I  am  too  well-known  in  London.  The  fraternity 
remembers  me.  Years  ago  I  bought  a  squirrel  outside 
the  Docks  from  a  man  who  said  that  it  was  tame ;  but, 
as  I  suspected,  it  was  drugged.  On  the  way  home  a 
thief  took  an  interest  in  my  bulging  pocket  and  inserted 
his  hand.  He  screamed!  The  squirrel  had  recovered 
and  bitten  him  to  the  bone!  Now  good-bye,  my  boy. 
You  will  come  here  whenever  you  please  in  daylight,  and 
make  yourself  at  home.  The  hall  footman  will  tell  me. 
And  don 't  be  afraid  of  my  being  offhand  with  you  before 
strangers:  you  may  remember  from  the  way  that  I 
addressed  your  wife  that  I  can  be  civil!  Only  when  I 
said,  as  I  believe  I  did  at  the  time,  that  I  hoped  to  make 
her  acquaintance  later  on  I  was  being  imaginative.  I 
lead  a  quiet  life,  because  I  never  have  anything  to  do 
with  women.  You'll  come  in  a  day  or  two,  I  suppose? 
I  'm  not  working  now,  I  'm  reading  novels ;  two  a  day  for 
a  few  weeks,  and  then  I  shall  have  an  impulse  to  go  off 
somewhere.  The  South  Downs,  I  dare  say.  I've  just 
come  across  a  book  of  Blackmore's,  called  AUce  Lorraine. 
I  may  do  the  South  Downs  and  a  bit  of  Kent. ' '  He  had 
talked  himself  to  the  doorway,  and  with  a  resounding 
"Good-bye,"  vanished  through  it  and  the  heavy  oak 
fell  to  with  a  clang. 


XXII 

BEFORE  long  Peter  was  going  regularly  to  Chelsea,  when- 
ever his  paid  work  allowed  him  leisure  in  the  morning. 
He  did  not  belong  to  Cynthia  until  the  afternoon,  and 
not  always  then  if  an  editor  was  insistent,  for  Peter  had 
become  a  busy  man.  She  was  proud  of  his  success  and 
she  had  plenty  to  do  herself  in  the  early  part  of  the 
day,  so  that  the  temptation  to  disturb  him  kept  away 
from  her  mind  until  lunchtime ;  then  if  he  was  working 
in  the  house  she  gave  him  a  silvery  call  of  "Peter!" 
which  brought  him  downstairs  almost  at  once. 

The  instinct  of  the  dinner-gong — the  preference  for 
punctuality  and  orderliness,  inherited  from  Lady  Brem- 
ner,  which  had  forsaken  Cynthia  on  the  moor — reas- 
serted itself  speedily  in  Mayfair.  The  house  began  to 
run  as  by  clockwork.  Only,  if  Peter  were  at  Chelsea  and 
came  back  late,  she  understood  and  said  no  word,  and 
took  any  trouble  caused  to  the  servants  upon  herself. 
Cynthia  had  always  been  kind  to  maids  and  treated 
them  as  human  beings,  which  is  different  from  realising 
that  they  are  human  beings,  her  next  piece  of  progress 
in  the  liberal  education  which  poverty  provides  for  the 
formerly-rich.  Cynthia,  as  a  luxurious  girl  settling 
down  to  be  a  poor  man 's  wife,  made  as  many  discoveries 
in  human  nature  as  though  she  had  not  studied  litera- 
ture and  Shaun,  had  not  chatted  and  worked  with  Mrs. 
Trerice  in  the  kitchen  at  Kadgells.  Her  mornings,  busied 
with  the  machinery  of  house  management,  were  devoid 
of  romance.  They  might  have  afforded  a  useful  correc- 
tive to  the  brilliant  afternoons  when  her  old  friends 
called  and  exclaimed  in  admiration  of  her  looks,  fell 
victims  to  her  charm,  and  best  of  all  let  her  see  un- 
mistakably how  they  liked  and  approved  of  Peter.  But 

385 


386  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

instead  of  that  they  seemed  to  make  society  more  ex- 
hilarating, more  exciting  than  it  had  ever  been  before. 
To  go  into  it  with  Peter  at  her  side,  was  a  delight  to 
Lady  Bremner's  daughter.  She  loved  to  see  people  re- 
ceiving him  naturally  on  his  own  merits,  to  watch  the 
way  in  which  the  friends  she  had  kept  at  arm's  length 
during  the  last  eighteen  months  forgave  her  upon  meet- 
ing him,  and  while  still  unconvinced  by  Lady  Bremner's 
skilfully-spread  explanation  of  the  elopement  became 
willing  to  accept  it  because  the  husband  was  so  charm- 
ing. It  amused  and  touched  and  rejoiced  her.  She 
had  seen  enough  to  know  how  very  different  might  have 
been  his  reception ;  how  different  it  would  be  now,  were 
he  not  Peter,  and  had  there  not  been  Shaun ! 

At  the  beginning  they  had  resolved  on  giving  teas  and 
very  occasional  informal  dinners  at  their  own  tiny  flat, 
for  said  Cynthia,  "if  we  take  to  entertaining  at  res- 
taurants it  will  be  the  end  of  us."  But  then,  people 
seemed  to  like  Bohemian  tea-parties.  They  crowded  into 
the  small  drawing-room,  sat  on  pouffes  or  on  the  floor 
in  the  most  cheerful  fashion,  when  the  supply  of  chairs 
gave  out — though  Phyllis 's  friends,  in  spite  of  being 
the  youthfullest  and  wealthiest  guests  as  a  rule,  showed 
a  marked  reluctance  to  part  with  the  more  comfortable 
perches  when  older  people  arrived.  Cynthia  congratu- 
lated herself  on  town  being  empty,  or  they  would  have 
been  overwhelmed.  As  it  was,  they  had  more  dinner, 
luncheon,  and  even  dance  invitations  than  they  knew 
what  to  do  with;  and  Peter  only  now  began  to  get  a 
true  conception  of  the  multitude  of  his  wife's  acquain- 
tance, though  several  times  before  he  had  thought  he 
had  done  so. 

They  were  living  in  a  whirl  of  excitement  and  pleas- 
ure, which  to  Peter  came  as  an  entire  novelty,  and  was 
coupled  with  success  in  the  career  he  had  chosen;  he 
would  not  have  been  human  if  he  had  not  been  slightly 
exhilarated!  He  was  more  elated  than  conceited,  and 
did  not  forget  to  be  thankful,  but  he  had  the  same  idea 
that  deluded  England,  Europe,  and  the  World  in  that 
mad  and  merry  month  of  July  before  the  Great  Ca- 


TRANSFORMATION  387 

tastrophe,  he  thought  that  the  critical  events  were  all 
over  and  that  he  could  read  the  future  clearly  written. 
It  seemed  as  though  life  must  always  be  the  same,  with 
Cynthia  by  his  side  brilliant  and  glad  as  a  summer 
morning;  with  his  profession  and  his  art  yoked  peace- 
fully together  before  the  chariot  that  was  bearing  him 
to  fortune ;  with  his  character  now  fixed  and  unchange- 
able. And  to  Cynthia  also  it  seemed  as  though  nothing 
could  alter.  Daddy  and  Mummy  liked  Peter  and  were 
growing  fond  of  him;  Alan  wrote  amiably  from  ports 
of  call ;  her  friends  were  enthusiastic ;  her  housekeeping 
a  success.  At  least  Peter  called  it  so,  although  they 
were  living  at  a  rate  above  their  income ;  and  his  praise 
was  enough.  She  felt  certain  he  would  earn  more  than 
the  £200  a  year  he  estimated  and  was  not  really  alarmed 
by  an  expenditure  that  would  have  horrified  Shaun. 
They  were  entering  unconsciously  in  those  three  or  four 
short  weeks  into  phases  of  development  which  were  full 
of  the  promise  of  trouble. 

Their  social  life  meant  for  Cynthia  the  resumption  of 
an  old  habit,  while  to  Peter  it  was  new:  yet  it  affected 
the  character  of  the  former  more  than  that  of  the  latter, 
because  Cynthia  was  unconscious  of  the  change  in  her- 
self which  the  honeymoon  had  brought  about;  she  did 
not  realise  how  much  it  had  deprived  her  of  self-con- 
sciousness. She  was  beginning  to  dress  daringly.  Con- 
vention had  given  both  mother  and  daughter  in  various 
degrees  the  peculiar  notion  that  young  married  women 
should  dress  differently  from  unmarried  girls  of  the 
same  age,  but  Cynthia  went  further  than  Lady  Bremner 
approved  and  not  for  any  reason  that  she  understood, 
for  she  failed  to  grasp  her  daughter's  complete  care- 
lessness of  the  opinion  of  anyone  in  the  world  but  Peter. 
Hitherto,  only  the  mother's  skilfully  quiet  dressing  of 
the  girl  had  prevented  her  from  being  run  after  by  cer- 
tain sets  in  which  extreme  decorativeness  has  a  social 
value  and  is  liable  to  cost  its  owner  dear  unless  she  has 
means  enough  to  go  the  pace.  In  these  sets,  thanks  to 
Madge  Tressly-Buchan,  Cynthia  was  now  becoming  a 
favourite.  Madge  had  returned  from  abroad  while 


388  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

Cynthia  was  away,  and  had  settled  herself  upon  the 
Thames.  She  was  therefore  near  at  hand,  and  remaining 
faithful  to  her  friend — more  faithful  than  she  had  been 
to  her  chauffeur — she  contrived  to  lead  the  pair  into  a 
vast  amount  of  expense.  As  Lady  Bremner  informed 
Peter,  she  was  "the  worst  possible  companion  for  dear 
Cynthia,"  for  dear  Cynthia  followed  her  to  keep  her 
out  of  mischief.  During  one  week-end  at  Taplow  she 
and  Peter  made  enough  acquaintances  to  ruin  a  young 
couple  with  ten  times  their  income.  Nor  did  Cynthia 
dislike  them  personally  now,  as  she  had  done  before 
her  marriage.  They  were  charming  to  her  because  she 
was  beautiful  and  strikingly  dressed,  and  before  when 
she  had  been  striking  and  beautifully  dressed  they  had 
not  attempted  to  be  charming.  That  was  partly  her 
reason,  and  it  was  possible  also  that  now  she  was  more 
open  to  flattery,  simply  because  she  was  too  happy  to  be 
sharply  critical,  too  indifferent  to  take  much  heed  of 
anyone  but  Peter,  and  also  made  glad  by  approval  of 
his  choice. 

She  was  actually  youthfuller  and  less  on  her  guard 
as  a  wife  than  she  had  been  previous  to  her  marriage, 
and  yet  she  was  thoroughly  conventional  in  those  weeks. 
Roughtor  was  left  behind,  the  harum-scarum  behaviour 
of  the  moor  forgotten;  climbs  and  untidiness  and  loos- 
ened hair  seemed  things  of  the  past;  Peter  was  amazed 
to  see  her  suddenly  become  the  society  woman.  Society 
had  the  opposite  effect  on  him  to  that  which  it  had 
upon  Cynthia.  Its  exhilaration  soon  wore  off,  and  left 
him  subtler  and  more  critical  and  disposed  towards  a 
kind  of  defensive  formality.  One  or  two  of  her  gowns 
in  the  extreme  of  the  fashion  shocked  poor  Peter,  pri- 
vately, although  they  were  his  own  fault,  for  he  had 
praised  her  shoulders,  and  her  limbs,  and  instead  of 
saying  outright  as  he  was  more  than  once  inclined  to 
do,  "That  reminds  me  of  Phyllis 's  style  of  dressing," 
he  admired  weakly  and  did  not  even  question  the  ex- 
pense. Indeed  he  could  not  help  admiring,  and  Cynthia 
was  too  joyous  to  perceive  a  mental  reservation.  The 
girl  was  not  temperamentally  adapted  for  an  impulsive 


TRANSFORMATION  389 

kind  of  existence,  and  perhaps  the  deliverance  from 
discipline  under  the  shadow  of  old  Roughtor  had  been 
too  sudden.  Still,  her  naturalness  there  had  had  a  noble 
simplicity.  Cynthia  was  born  to  be  wise,  not  worldly- 
wise;  she  appeared  sophisticated  and  was,  in  reality, 
innocent.  She  was  simply  asserting  a  girlish  love  of 
beautiful  and  expensive  clothes  and  a  girl's  desire  for 
the  admiration  of  her  husband. 

It  was  strange  for  Peter  to  find  himself  sympathising 
with  Lady  Bremner,  as  he  did  more  than  once  in  small 
matters  when  Cynthia  rather  naughtily  set  aside  her 
advice.  He  had  not  reached  the  stage  of  thinking  it 
possible  the  girl  could  be  wrong,  but  he  was  conscious 
of  an  increase  of  affection  towards  the  mother.  Peter's 
ideas  of  propriety  placed  him  midway  between  the  two. 
Shaun  had  often  called  him  an  old-fashioned  boy, 
Cynthia  in  a  month  had  become  a  new-fashioned  young 
woman ;  while  Lady  Bremner 's  views  were  those  of  Sir 
Everard,  which  dated  from  farther  back  than  Peter's 
and  were  more  rigid  and  even  less  logical.  In  this  stage 
of  their  development  Peter  was  steadied  by  his  art, 
whereas  Cynthia  had  nothing  external  to  assist  her: 
she  was  in  the  giddy  position  of  a  person  who  has 
emerged  suddenly  upon  the  summit  of  her  ambitions. 

The  news  that  Austria  had  declared  war  against  Servia 
did  not  interest  either,  although  the  advisability  of  mak- 
ing some  studies  of  Servian  national  costume  was  be- 
ginning to  dawn  upon  Peter.  However,  during  the  day 
the  cook  collapsed  in  the  kitchen  and  was  removed  to 
hospital  and  operated  upon  for  appendicitis,  "just  in 
time,"  as  the  house-surgeon  expressed  it,  so  there  was 
not  much  opportunity  to  consider  international  politics. 
They  resolved  to  follow  the  painter  to  Sussex,  and  it 
was  actually  in  the  train  that  Peter  read  of  Germany's 
invasion  of  Luxemburg. 


XXIII 

THEY  found  lodgings  in  a  market  gardener's  cottage  on 
the  outskirts  of  a  little  country  town.  From  the  window 
they  could  see  the  green  roll  of  the  wide  downs  stretch- 
ing like  the  curve  of  a  wave  along  the  edge  of  a  smooth 
country,  and  the  rounded  summit  over  which  the  shadows 
chased  each  other  reminded  them  strangely  of  the  moor 
and  yet  was  gently  different,  under  a  fleecier  sky.  The 
quiet  speech  of  the  Sussex  folk  was  unlike  that  of  the 
Cornish;  they  were  Saxons  as  opposed  to  Celts,  and 
somehow  the  Saxon  had  less  dignity,  less  friendliness. 
There  was  more  of  respect  and  habit  in  the  English  na- 
ture, so  that  Cynthia  did  not  dream  of  entering  the 
kitchen  of  the  gardener's  wife.  The  gardener  had  a 
sturdy  independence  of  his  own  and  might  not  have 
cared  to  see  her  there ;  that  was  what  she  felt,  nor  was 
she  conscious  of  the  impulse  to  learn  ironing  from  Mrs. 
Thorne  when  she  observed  ironing  going  on.  She  won- 
dered if  the  change  were  in  herself. 

The  garden  was  full  of  strange  blossoms,  of  which 
she  and  town-bred  Peter  did  not  know  the  names,  and 
on  Sunday  the  scent  of  the  flowers  came  to  the  window 
where  they  sat,  together  with  the  calling  of  chiming  bells 
and  the  whisper  of  a  soft  breeze  that  stirred  the  leaves 
of  the  clematis  under  the  sill.  A  shower  had  darkened 
the  ground  and  the  smell  of  good  moist  earth  rose  to 
them,  too.  It  seemed  to  Peter  one  of  those  moments 
that  are  unforgettable.  A  Sunday  paper  was  by  his  side. 

"Why  didn't  he  plant  his  roses  in  the  front?"  asked 
Cynthia,  pettishly.  She  was  not  thinking  of  roses. 

' '  The  Master  says  it  means  War, ' '  said  Peter,  employ- 
ing his  favourite  nickname  for  the  painter. 

Cynthia  compelled  herself  to  speak  lightly.  "  I  'm  glad 
you  are  not  a  soldier,  Peterest!" 

390 


TRANSFORMATION  391 

"He's  glad.  Darling,  this  will  be  an  awful  business  if 
it  does  start." 

"England,  France,  Russia,  and  Servia  against  Ger- 
many, Austria,  and  Italy.  We  shall  beat  them  easily 
enough."  England  thought  so  then. 

"I  don't  know.  Shaun  had  a  great  respect  for  the 
German  army,  and  nobody  knows  yet  what  submarines 
can  do." 

' '  Perhaps  the  Government  won 't  fight ! ' '  said  Cynthia. 

' '  You  bet  the  Germans  are  trying  to  get  them  not  to. ' ' 

"Well,  I  daresay  they'll  succeed!" 

"Aren't  you  interested,  Starry?" 

"Very  much,  indeed.  Tell  me,  should  we  have  to  send 
an  expeditionary  army  to  France?" 

"I  daresay  we  should.    A  small  one." 

"A  small  one!  Then  we  shouldn't  have  to  increase 
our  army  much?" 

"We  might,  dear.     Cynthia,  I  may  have  to  go!" 

Cynthia  sat  staring  in  wretched  silence  out  of  the 
window.  She  did  not  see  the  peaceful  down,  nor  the 
white  of  the  chalk  quarry  against  blue  sky,  nor  the  high 
clouds  sailing  overhead.  It  had  come  at  last.  He  had 
said  what  she  had  feared  he  would  say,  and  she  saw  only 
a  closed  barrier  and  a  troop  train  drawing  out  of  an 
empty  platform,  and  heard  behind  her  a  roar  of  cheer- 
ing. .  .  .  She  started  and  swallowed  as  the  church  bells 
broke  in  upon  her  vision.  The  troop  train  vanished,  and 
the  shouts  of  the  crowd  which  had  seemed  almost  menac- 
ing, and  she  listened  to  the  sweet,  church  bells.  "I 
won't  keep  you,"  she  promised. 


XXIV 

YET  she  did  keep  him,  unwilling  to  let  him  go  prepare, 
and  the  Master  said  that  artists  had  nothing  to  do  with 
war.  Peter  was  slow  to  take  action,  always.  Time  enough 
to  get  ready  to  enlist  when  we  entered  the  war.  Time 
enough,  time  enough — it  was  the  cry  of  England !  Be- 
sides he  hated  the  Service  manner  of  doing  things.  Al- 
though a  first-class  rifle-shot  he  had  never  joined  a 
Territorial  Corps  for  that  reason,  and  when  Aunt  May 
had  pitchforked  him  into  the  Great  Company,  instead  of 
sending  him  in  for  Woolwich,  it  had  been  chiefly  the 
glamour  and  the  position  that  he  regretted,  not  the  life, 
towards  which  he  felt  no  leaning.  He,  though  a  soldier 's 
son,  had  not  the  love  of  the  army  in  his  blood. 

He  was  walking  alone  on  a  wide  country  road,  mount- 
ing between  trees.  Nearing  the  summit  of  the  hill  was 
a  flock  of  woolly  sheep,  black-legged  and  baaing  in 
lamentation.  They  ran  in  a  cloud  of  dust,  pursued  by  a 
collie  dog  and  a  small  urchin  with  an  ash  crook  taller 
than  himself.  Above  the  dust  was  the  clear  edge  of  the 
hill,  a  sharp  grey  line  across  the  sapphire  sky,  and  the 
tall  elms  rose  nodding  their  feathery  tops  on  either  hand. 
Suddenly  a  cart  appeared  hanging  like  a  fly  to  the  sum- 
mit, and  dipped  into  the  cloud  of  dust  and,  emerging, 
grew  bigger.  It  was  the  fourth  of  August.  The  driver 
was  absorbed  in  a  newspaper,  the  reins  hanging  loose, 
their  ends  clutched  by  his  left  elbow  against  his  side. 
"What's  the  news?"  cried  Peter.  "Is  it  war?" 

He  was  fair  and  florid,  with  a  big  moustache  turned 
straw  colour  by  countless  suns  and  stubby  light  hair  of 
the  same  curious  burnt  hue,  and  he  had  very  bright, 
perplexed,  blue  eyes.  "I'm  readin'  about  the  big  Band 
Contest!"  he  said. 

392 


TRANSFORMATION  393 

"Is  it  war,  man?" 

"Ye-es,  we're  at  war  with  them  Germans,"  he  replied, 
in  the  same  soft  drawl,  ' '  but  I  'm  readin '  about  the  band 
contest,  for  I  play  the  piccolo,  I  do." 

Peter  hurried  on.  There  was  a  sound  in  his  brain  like 
the  toll  of  a  booming  bell,  striking  the  hour  of  Eng- 
land, or  was  it  his  own  hour?  He  was  not  consciously 
afraid  and  the  noise,  produced  by  excitement,  soon  died 
away.  But  long  afterwards,  in  his  delirium,  he  repeated 
over  and  over  again,  "I  heard  Fate  knelling!  At  the 
beginning  I  heard  Fate  knelling.  ..." 


XXV 

IN  the  market-place  Territorials  were  parading  to  march 
to  the  station.  Women  and  girls  hovered  calling  fare- 
wells, men  talked  together  in  groups  upon  the  pave- 
ments, carts  blocked  the  entrances  to  the  narrow  side 
streets.  The  half  company  formed  column  and  swung 
out  into  the  high-road,  holding  themselves  stiffly;  more 
upright  than  was  their  country  wont.  "Cut  all  their 
topheads  off!"  cried  a  smocked  carter,  reaching  high, 
cracking  his  whip  wildly,  and  the  children  started  at 
a  run  to  follow,  while  a  strange  sound  of  farewell,  half 
shout,  half  moan,  rose  from  the  centre  of  the  square 
whither  the  people  had  now  closed  in.  They  stood  dully 
motionless,  looking  after,  until  a  strong,  tenor  voice 
struck  up  Tipperary  from  the  head  of  the  disappearing 
column,  when  suddenly  there  burst  out  a  roar  of  cheer- 
ing. "Go  on,  lads!  Hurray!  Hurray!"  the  people 
called,  drowning  the  music,  and  streamed  along  the  high- 
road. Long  after  the  square  was  empty  Peter  heard  the 
distant  lilt  of  the  marching  chorus.  It  faded,  rose  again 
.  .  .  fell  swiftly  .  .  .  murmured  .  .  .  died:  and  he 
turned  on  his  heel  to  go  and  enlist. 


394 


XXVI 

HE  found  a  very  old  gentleman  sitting  alone  in  the 
library  of  an  old-fashioned  house  with  a  red  tiled  roof, 
and  a  wide  verandah  overhung  with  creepers,  and  a 
straggling  garden  where  roses  bloomed  untended  and  tall 
hollyhocks  waved  and  grass  grew  upon  the  walks.  "Gen- 
eral "Westoe's  doin'  the  recruitin',"  they  had  told  him. 

"Come  to  enlist?"  asked  the  old  man.  "That  is 
right,  Mary ;  show  them  all  in  here. ' '  He  wore  a  short, 
white  moustache  and  imperial,  peered  with  near-sighted, 
gentle  eyes.  No  judge  of  men  would  have  doubted  him 
to  be  a  very  lion  of  courage.  He  spoke  with  the  kindliest 
courtesy,  and  after  another  gaze  at  his  visitor,  begged 
him  to  sit  down. 

Peter  stammered  in  his  eagerness.  At  the  back  of  his 
mind  he  knew  he  was  committing  a  treachery  to  Cyn- 
thia by  rushing  off  to  bind  himself  without  disclosing 
his  intention  beforehand;  but  it  had  seemed  the  only 
way  to  do  it.  "I  want  to  get  in  to  the  99th,  my 
father's  old  regiment,"  he  ended. 

' '  I  met  your  father  when  he  was  a  captain  in  Burma, ' ' 
said  the  General.  "We  saw  service  together.  Would 
you  not  go  through  one  of  the  Officers'  Training  Corps, 
Mr.  Middleton,  and  try  for  a  commission?" 

Peter  explained  that  he  hated  soldiering,  did  not  feel 
that  he  ought  to  take  a  commission,  and  was  just  mar- 
ried. He  wanted  to  get  the  parting  over. 

"It  is  not  my  duty  to  discourage  a  recruit,"  said  the 
old  officer,  sadly,  fumbling  among  the  forms  on  the 
edge  of  the  table  by  which  he  was  seated.  "I  wish  I 
thought  that  our  country  does  not  need  you."  An  idea 
struck  him  and  he  leant  back.  "But  may  I  ask  you 
a  question?  Have  you  office  experience?" 

395 


396  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

"I  was  with  the  Great  Company  for  some  years." 

"Then  would  you  for  the  time  being  consent  to  work 
here  with  me?  I  know  it  would  be  a  sacrifice  of  your 
personal  inclinations,  but  your  assistance  would  be  in- 
valuable, as  I  have  a  quantity  of  confidential  orders  and 
notices  passing  through  my  hands.  Being  commandant 
of  the  National  Reserve  I  come  in  for  everything.  There 
is  no  garrison  in  the  neighbourhood,  and  I  cannot  obtain 
so  much  as  a  couple  of  orderlies!" 

"I  believe  I  ought  to  go  at  once,  sir,"  said  Peter. 
"Because  I'm  afraid  to  go!" 

General  Westoe  smiled  a  queer,  little  twisted  smile. 
"That  argument  does  not  weigh  with  me,"  he  said 
politely.  "I  cannot  attach  much  importance  to  your 
apprehensions.  I  have  found  invariably  that  men  who 
are  ready  to  admit  their  fears  do  well  on  active  service. 
No,  sir,  I  will  send  your  name  forward  if  you  insist  on 
going,  but  not  for  that  reason,  which  makes  no  appeal 
to  me." 

Peter  sincerely  trusted  the  old  gentleman  was  right, 
but  that  was  just  what  he  had  wanted  to  make  sure  of 
by  actual  experience  as  soon  as  possible.  He  was  be- 
wildered enough  by  this  time  to  be  uncertain  whether 
the  impulse  which  had  brought  him  hither  were  cowardly 
or  brave.  The  sight  of  the  disorderly  documents  on 
the  table  and  the  thought  of  unconscious  Cynthia  urged 
him  towards  surrender,  as  did  remembrances  of  his  un- 
finished picture  of  the  blue  water  seen  across  a  windy 
distance  from  the  top  of  a  green  down,  and  of  the 
shadow  of  the  Master  falling  large  on  the  ground  before 
the  easel.  What  would  that  watching  figure  say  to  his 
precipitancy?  And  he  had  promised  drawings  to  three 
editors.  Ah,  that  released  him! 

"I'll  be  very  glad  to  stay  with  you,"  he  said. 

Cynthia  did  not  weep  over  him  on  his  return.  She 
looked  at  him  for  a  moment  in  wonder  when  he  told  her, 
and  for  days  after  trembled  whenever  he  went  out  of 
her  sight,  and  spent  the  hours  while  he  was  away  in  a 
sort  of  dumb  agony. 

On  the  6th  a  cable  came  from  Shaun,  having  been 


TRANSFORMATION  397 

delayed  in  transit.  Coming  wait  for  me,  it  said.  Peter 
waited.  His  work  at  the  Recruiting  Office  did  not  oc- 
cupy him  the  entire  day.  He  had  still  time  for  the 
Master,  Cynthia,  and  his  drawing — not  enough  for  Cyn- 
thia, who  was  apt  to  haunt  the  neighbourhood  of  the 
office  in  panic  lest  he  should  suddenly  escape  from  her. 
She  did  not  forget  how  nearly  he  had  gone,  and  wor- 
shipped General  Westoe,  who  showed  none  of  the 
Master's  indifference  towards  a  lovely  young  woman. 
Indeed  the  General  spoilt  her.  He  would  always  send 
out  a  servant  to  call  her  in  to  wait  in  comfort  in  the 
drawing-room,  kept  them  both  to  lunch  or  tea  on  most 
days,  and  not  infrequently  when  the  War  Office  issued 
contradictory  instructions  brought  them  to  her  for 
woman's  wit  to  unravel. 

"I  should  like  your  opinion,  Mrs.  Middleton,  if  you 
would  oblige  me. " 

"What  does  Peter  say?"  Cynthia  would  ask,  bending 
her  pretty  brows  over  the  typewritten  sheets. 

"Your  husband's  clear,  business  brain — permit  me, 
Middleton — recognised  at  once  their  contradictory 
nature.  He  sent  off  an  urgent  telegram  on  the  subject 
as  soon  as  he  received  them.  Do  have  a  peach  while 
you  are  thinking." 

Cynthia  laid  down  the  papers  and  selected  a  peach,  de- 
livering judgment  as  she  did  so.  "I  believe  two  differ- 
ent people  wrote  them  without  consulting.  Thank  you." 

"They  are  both  signed  by  the  same  authority,"  ob- 
jected the  old  gentleman,  with  gravity. 

"I  really  think  then  he  must  have  signed  them  with- 
out reading  them, ' '  persisted  Cynthia. 

The  General  turned  to  Peter  and  nodded.  ' '  You  were 
right.  We  were  both  right!  And  men  come  here,  Mrs. 
Middleton,  to  enlist  and  are  sent  away  again  because  of 
errors  of  this  nature — most  disheartening  to  them  and 
to  us.  It  took  us  seven  days  to  dispose  of  an  Irishman, 
a  National  Reserve  man — a  most  excellent  soldier,  passed 
by  the  doctors,  all  ready  to  go!  For  some  reason  or 
other  the  Depot  would  not  take  him  at  once,  and  I  assure 
you  the  man  was  heartbroken.  He  had  seen  service  in 


398  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

South  Africa  and  was  most  eager  to  get  to  work  again. 
Besides,  he  had  given  up  his  employment,  and  the  family 
with  whom  he  was  lodging  chaffed  him  somewhat  un- 
mercifully on  his  reappearance  day  after  day.  Finally 
I  sent  him  off  on  my  own  responsibility  with  a  strong 
letter  to  the  O.C.,  and  the  last  we  heard  of  him  was — 
what  was  it,  Middleton?" 

' '  He  was  showing  a  recruit  a  rolled-up  puttee.  '  Shure, 
and  d'ye  know  hwhat  that  is?'  says  Pat.  '  'Tis  hwhat 
ye  toie  round  yer  throat  to  kape  the  dust  out  of  yer 
oyes!'  " 

"Exactly!  From  which  I  conclude  that  he  had  re- 
covered his  spirits.  Excellent  material !  The  Irish  are 
wonderful  fighters.  They  are  admirable  soldiers  in 
peace  time,  too,  so  long  as  they  are  worked  hard  by 
officers  who  understand  them,  but  they  can't  stand 
idleness,  at  least  that  is  my  little  opinion !  I  once  had 
a  head  gardener  who  used  to  tell  me,  'I  always  like  to 
hear  your  little  opinion,  sir,'  and  the  phrase  stuck,  Mrs. 
Middleton!  I  generally  speak  of  'my  little  opinion.' 
It  sounds  modest  and  an  old  soldier  ought  to  be  modest, 
although  I  do  not  know  that  the  quality  is  desirable  in  a 
young  one — certainly  not  in  a  cavalryman." 

By  the  time  that  Liege  had  fallen  and  Shaun  James 
had  reached  England  the  three  were  become  fast  friends, 
and  Cynthia,  through  the  General 's  introduction,  had  ob- 
tained work  from  the  Soldiers'  and  Sailors'  Families' 
Association.  Each  day  now  seemed  all  too  short  for 
her.  She  soon  mastered  the  clerical  part  of  the  busi- 
ness, and  took  the  lead  on  the  Committee,  being  the 
daughter  of  a  K.C.M.G.  It  had  been  formed  on  the 
English  plan  of  assembling,  first,  a  lady  of  high  rank 
and  small  capacity  as  chairman,  second,  all  the  people 
who  would  have  felt  affronted  had  they  been  left  out,  and 
last,  a  minority  of  genuine  workers,  who,  while  others 
talked,  did  quietly  what  had  to  be  done,  grew  accustomed 
to  be  overruled,  and  only  forbore  to  resign  because 
they  feared  they  would  be  wanted  in  the  future.  Well, 
now  they  were  wanted — badly;  but  being  in  England 
of  course  they  were  not  given  immediately  full  power. 


TRANSFORMATION  399 

It  takes  fear  to  teach  the  English  how  to  organise. 

The  sobering  of  spirit  which  the  war  induced  in  all 
classes  was  soonest  felt  in  that  to  which  Cynthia  be- 
longed, and  the  nature  of  her  work  led  her  amongst 
a  class  which  gave  of  its  best  and  for  the  most  part 
suffered  in  silence,  being  already  near  to  the  realities 
of  life.  The  reaction  in  Cynthia  was  girlishly  complete. 
She  wore  old  clothes,  half  starved  Peter  for  a  few  days 
in  a  wild  fit  of  economy,  and  was  the  means  of  en- 
couraging Madge  Tressly-Buchan  to  enter  the  London 
Hospital  as  a  probationer,  a  patriotic  feat  for  which 
the  staff  of  that  institution  were  probably  not  grate- 
ful. Phyllis  declined  to  follow.  They  a/re  safer  without 
me,  she  wrote  with  much  truth,  and  my  old  crock  is 
a  Colonel  of  Yeomanry,  whatever  they  are!  Do  write, 
darling  Cyn,  if  they  have  anything  to  do  with  the  Yeo- 
men of  the  Guard,  because  in  that  case  I  ought  to  know. 
A  Colonel  rides  anyhow,  and  I  want  to  get  a  uniform 
like  his  and  ride  with  him.  She  announced  that  she 
was  going  north  for  that  purpose  in  a  few  days.  Joyce, 
on  the  other  hand,  wrote  sensibly,  rejoicing  that  her 
mother  was  coming  home  from  India,  and  with  much 
pluck  saying  little  about  the  cause,  which  was  that  Major 
Ommaney  had  been  ordered  to  France  with  his  regiment. 
Practical  Joyce  was  already  learning  to  knit. 

The  first  intelligence  of  Shaun  James's  return  came 
from  Lady  Bremner.  Daddy  thinks  so  badly  of  the  war, 
she  wrote.  /  suppose  you  know  that  Mr.  James  is  back 
in  town.  I  met  him,  much  to  my  surprise,  in  Piccadilly, 
and  he  asked  me  whether  he  looked  young  enough  to 
pass  for  thirty-five.  I  could  not  conscientiously  say 
that  he  did.  The  news  was  a  shock  to  Peter  and  Cyn- 
thia, who  could  not  understand  Shaun 's  silence.  They 
respected  it,  and  a  few  days  later  received  the  following 
letter. 

CRYSTAL  PALACE, 

August  17th,  1914. 

Dear  Peter  and  Cynthia, 

I  have  joined  the  R.N.R.  Division  named  after  the 
good  King  Alfred  and  look  as  I  have  not  looked  since 


400  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

/  urns  five  years  old,  only  they  will  not  let  me  carry 
a  whistle  slung  round  my  neck  on  a  white  cord.  Tire- 
some of  them,  very.  I  wish  you  could  see  Shaun  in  his 
sailor  suit;  his  trousers  are  exquisitely  baggy  at  the 
ankles  and  his  collars  an  inch  wider  than  any  one  else's 
(Liarl),  but  I  do  not  wish  you  to  see  him  if  you  do 
not  mind  very  much.  He  hates  meetings  and  partings. 

I  asked  you  to  wait  until  I  came  back,  because  al- 
though I  am  going  for  selfish  reasons  I  also  consider 
that  I  am  replacing  you,  Peter,  among  our  gallant  de- 
fenders. You  will  break  my  heart  if  you  go  too.  My 
work  is  over  and  yours  is  to  come.  My  wife  is  dead; 
yours  is  with  you.  I  am  unhappy;  you  are  happy. 
Honestly,  I  shan't  be  very  sorry  to  be  knocked  over, 
provided  it's  painless.  You  don't  know  what  it  is  to 
outlive  the  power  to  do  one's  best  work.  Lately  I've 
done  nothing  but  think  of  Doris.  I  didn't  seem  able 
to  hustle  up  to  Noo  York's  standard — believe  I  should 
have  got  the  sack  if  I'd  stayed.  And  Peter!  I've  missed 
you  two  kids  a  bit.  Don't  talk  more  rubbish  about 
money;  I  had  a  lot  of  fun  out  of  you,  and  it  was  worth 
it! 

If  you  feel  you  owe  me  anything  show  some  moral 
courage  and  stay  at  home  as  I  ask  you  to  do.  You'll 
find  it  a  damned  sight  harder  than  going,  old  boy.  You 
two  stand  for  the  future  of  England.  There  won't 
be  any  gentlemen  left  after  this  war.  Have  a  lot  of 
children.  Don't  be  a  fool  about  that.  Only  don't  let 
them  destroy  my  Charles  Ricketts,  which  I've  left  you. 
It's  over  at  New  York. 

This  war  will  last  five  years  and  if  we  get  through  it 
it  will  be  by  the  skin  of  our  teeth.  I  know  England. 

Those  apes  at  the  Recruiting  Office  swore  I  looked 
over  forty,  the  impudent  devils!  I  went  the  whole  hog, 
according  to  my  principles,  and  said  I  was  thirty-three, 
made  a  great  point  of  being  only  just  that  age  and 
pointed  out  that  if  I  were  really  over  forty  I  should 
certainly  have  called  myself  older  than  thirty-three! 
Bluffed  'em. 

I've  been  wondering — Peter,  forgive  a  bit  of  a  sermon 


TRANSFORMATION  401 

at  the  last:  it  is  the  last.  I  know  I'm  going  west! — 
whether  I  did  you  good  or  harm  with  all  those  lies.  I've 
always  been  a  believer — in  my  heart — in  truth  at  any 
price.  Doris — well,  we  won't  talk  about  her  now,  but 
I  was  straighter  while  she  was  alive.  Fact  of  the  matter 
was  I  formed  a  habit  while  I  was  young.  My  mother 
didn't  understand  the  kind  of  boy  I  was.  It  was  all  a 
pity.  You  and  Cynthia  haven't  misunderstood  all  this 
time,  I  hopef  You've  known  what  I  really  admired f 
I  tried  to  save  you  from  lying,  to  do  it  all  myself.  But 
somehow  things  look  different  now  with  the  Shadow  of 
the  Wings  of  Death  over  us.  I've  wondered  whether  I 
did  wrong.  Try  not  to  be  hurt  by  anything  I  did, 
please,  for  my  sake,  both  of  you. 

Don't  reply,  except  'Good  luck  and  good-bye,  Shaun. 
We  understand.' 

I  believe  in  one  God,  Who  is  Love,  and  he  that  dwelleth 
in  Love  dwelleth  in  God  and  God  in  him.  Thank  Him, 
I've  always  lived  in  my  work!  An  artist's  no  good 
unless  he  does.  Remember  that,  Peter,  even  though  you 
lose  her  and  it  breaks  you  up. 

God  bless  you,  old  man,  and  you  too,  Cynthia. 

Yours, 

Shaun. 

P.S. — 7  don't  often  write  without  a  postscript!  Never 
was  there  a  more  laborious  novelist  than  I,  anyhow! 
I've  often  written  10,000  words  to  get  500,  and  so  my  let- 
ters are  rotten,  not  written.  'Providence  is  a  bit  of  a 
Character,'  and  if  I  come  out  alive  at  the  end  it  won't 
be  the  first  presentiment  that  has  gone  wrong.  I  was 
going  to  say  this.  If  I'm  killed — and  you'll  hear,  be- 
cause I've  told  the  authorities  you  are  my  only  surviving 
relative — then  call  one  of  the  kids,  a  fair-haired  one  for 
choice,  by  my  name,  will  you?  Thanks.  If  I'm  not 
killed,  don't;  for  it  would  be  a  pity  to  go  against  Cyn- 
thia's mother,  with  whom  I  want  you  to  be  always  on  the 
best  of  terms. 


XXVII 

THEY  were  glad  that  they  had  not  written  to  the  Savage 
Club;  what  hurt  them  most  was  the  disappointment 
of  not  seeing  him,  which  a  kind  of  shame  prevented 
Peter  from  bearing  well.  He  grumbled,  while  Cynthia 
wept,  and  each  added  a  few  sentences  to  the  short 
message  that  Shaun  had  asked  for.  Otherwise  they 
obeyed  him. 

And  so  August  drew  to  a  close,  with  sheep  upon  the 
downs,  and  fields  patterned  with  stocks  in  the  morning 
sunshine,  and  leafy  lanes,  and  much  laborious  work  for 
both  man  and  girl.  Cynthia  made  friends  rapidly, 
swam  in  the  river  at  dawn,  and  played  lawn-tennis  after 
her  rounds  were  over;  Peter  had  painting  and  draw- 
ing to  do  when  the  General  released  him.  Sometimes  he 
took  moody  walks  by  himself.  Cynthia  was  very  tender 
to  him,  but  she  had  lost  for  the  time  her  great  fear 
lest  he  should  go.  Shaun 's  sacrifice,  which  she  looked 
upon  as  all  sacrifice,  had  removed  that  terror.  She 
was  often  gay,  always  bewitching,  a  girl  difficult  for 
a  young  husband  to  leave,  and  her  unconsciousness  made 
it  doubly  hard. 

Meanwhile  recruits  were  coming  in  every  day  and 
Peter  fancied  that  each  one  looked  at  him  con- 
temptuously: ploughboys;  a  pugnacious  draper,  a  little 
bantam-cock  of  a  man ;  National  Reserve  men  with  re- 
spect for  the  General ;  an  ancient  shepherd  who  grieved 
because  he  might  not  go ;  labourers  with  a  deep  interest 
in  the  army  as  an  investment,  who  roused  the  General 's 
ire;  others  who  were  mainly  eager  to  get  to  the  front 
at  once ;  a  stray  Canadian  whose  language  was  free  and 
strange, — the  General  did  not  mind  that,  for,  "They 
tell  me  these  fellows  make  good  material,"  said  he.  Also 

402 


TRANSFORMATION  403 

there  came  a  north-country  mechanic  who  took  a  chair 
unbidden  and  lighted  a  big  cigar  and  conversed  in  quite 
a  patronising  way. 

"Ought  we  to  enlist  a  chap  like  that,  sir?"  asked 
Peter.  "He  said  he'd  been  working  with  Cammell, 
Laird,  the  shipbuilders." 

"We  cannot  help  it,  my  boy,  in  the  present  state  of 
infernal  muddle!  I  daresay  he'd  be  much  more  useful 
turning  a  lathe  or  whatever  he  does  do,  confound  his 
impudence !  But  this  is  a  free  country  except  for  men 
who  do  not  desire  to  join  a  Trade  Union  or  employers 
who  are  willing  to  employ  such  men,  and  nothing  can 
be  done." 

Slow-thinking  Peter  decided  this  was  a  pity,  and  that 
he  would  alter  it  if  he  were  able,  wherein  he  was 
exactly  eight  months  ahead  of  the  Government. 

In  the  last  days  of  the  month,  as  the  Germans  swept 
towards  Paris,  fear  grew  again  in  Cynthia's  heart  like 
an  evil  weed,  choking  her  happiness. 

On  the  29th  of  August  Peter  came  home  early  while 
the  landlady  was  setting  out  Cynthia's  tea.  "Shall  I  lay 
a  cup  for  you,  sir?"  she  inquired,  but  he  said  no,  he 
had  had  tea  at  the  office.  Cynthia  arrived  and  found 
him  sitting  idly  in  the  big  basket-chair  doing  nothing. 
"What's  the  matter?"  she  asked  quickly.  "Aren't 
you  going  to  paint  to-day?" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"How  nice!  Then  we'll  have  tea  together.  I  won't 
be  a  second  taking  off  my  hat." 

With  an  effort  he  said,  "I  don't  want  any  tea." 

She  looked  at  him.  Her  voice  was  the  voice  of  a 
frightened  woman  who  understood.  "Oh,  but,  Peter, 
darling,  you  must  have  tea!  It  cheers  one  up  so." 

' '  If  you  like ! "  he  said.    ' '  Thank  you. ' ' 

Her  instinct  was  to  avert  further  talk  and  she  went 
to  fetch  his  cup  herself,  but  on  her  return  she  saw  that 
he  was  trying  to  control  himself  enough  to  announce 
his  intention,  and  asked  hastily  the  first  thing  which 
came  into  her  head,  "How  is  the  General?"  she 
quavered. 


404  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

Peter's  answer  came  in  a  rush.  "All  right.  The 
office  is  in  order  now.  I've  said  good-bye  to  him  and  to 
the  Master.  Cynthia,  I've  got  to  do  it." 

Her  eyes  were  blind  with  tears.  She  was  stirring 
away  mechanically,  one  elbow  on  the  table,  her  chin 
supported  on  her  hand.  Still  she  made  a  pathetic  pre- 
tence of  not  realising.  "Are  you  going  to  take  a  holi- 
day, my  darling  ..."  she  began.  ' '  My  darling ! ' '  Her 
voice  trembled  into  silence. 

"I  ought,"  he  said.  "Shaun  can't  take  this  off  my 
shoulders  .  .  .  can  he?  No,  no,  don't  speak!  I  know 
he  can 't.  I  'm  a  good  rifle-shot,  and  they  're  beating  us  ; 
they're  driving  us!  We  need  every  man.  I  don't  want 
to  go,  Starry  dear.  I  don 't  want  to  go !  I  hate  it.  I  'm 
afraid.  But  I  must!" 

He  had  risen.  She  looked  very  still  and  small  and 
white  under  the  shadow  of  her  big  hat,  sitting  there  at 
the  table,  gazing  with  blind  eyes. 

She  opened  her  lips  and  no  sound  came  but  a  little 
gasp.  Then  she  whispered  slowly  and  painfully,  "I  ... 
do  ...  love  you  ...  I  ...  do  ...  love  you.  ...  I  prom- 
ised. ...  I  will  ...  be  brave!" 

Next  morning  they  left  for  London. 


XXVIII 

THE  period  which  follows  the  making  of  a  desperate 
decision  is  usually  more  peaceful  than  that  which  leads 
up  to  it,  even  in  those  cases  when  action  is  not  pos- 
sible at  once.  The  next  fortnight  was  the  happiest  that 
Peter  had  ever  known.  Sir  Everard  and  Lady  Bremner 
were  as  kind  as  though  he  had  been  their  own  son,  and 
the  Master,  though  simulating  wrath,  in  reality  ap- 
proved. You  may  be  quite  certain  I  shall  not  take 
another  disciple!  he  wrote.  One  is  enough.  Your  place 
will  be  vacant  for  you  when  you  return.  I  beg  of  you 
not  to  sell  hasty  sketches  to  the  periodicals.  This  from 
him  was  equivalent  to  a  blessing.  Shaun  replied :  /  ex- 
pected you  would.  Well,  it  is  a  great  game!  Good- 
bye with  you,  Peter.  Tell  her  this  will  complete  her 
education.  War  teaches  girls  to  trust  in  God.  Outside 
was  written,  No,  neither,  please.  They  had  asked 
whether  either  of  them  might  come  to  see  him  or  write. 

"Good-bye — God  be  with  you."  It  sounded  strange 
from  old  Shaun.  He  was  one  of  those  men  who  from 
humility  deny  that  they  possess  virtues.  He  would 
never  allow  that  he  was  honest,  industrious,  or  pious. 
Yet  this  was  his  farewell,  worthy  of  the  strong  and 
simple  mother  who  bore  him, — and  it  heartened  Peter. 

Peter's  own  impulse  was  to  enlist  in  the  ranks,  but 
Sir  Everard  and  Cynthia  pressed  him  to  apply  for  a 
commission.  Both  pointed  out  that  there  must  be  a 
shortage  of  officers  later  on.  "They  could  promote  me 
from  the  ranks,"  objected  Peter.  His  personal  feeling 
was  that  the  whole  business  would  be  unbearable  unless 
it  were  done  thoroughly.  He  loathed  it  so  much  that 
he  wanted  to  be  where  illusions  were  not.  A  visit  to 

405 


406  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

the  Great  Company  showed  him  Semple  and  Blotter 
about  to  join  an  Officers'  Training  Corps;  Mulholland 
had  already  gone,  and  he  would  have  liked  to  serve  with 
Holly,  but  somehow  he  could  not  bear  the  idea  of  work- 
ing side  by  side  with  Blotter  and  Semple.  He  felt  that 
their  presence  would  destroy  the  dignity  of  death. 
Their  society  would  throw  him  back  upon  an  intoler- 
able loneliness.  Cynthia  pointed  out  in  vain  how  un- 
fairly they  represented  the  class  from  which  the  new 
officers  were  being  drawn.  Peter  wagged  his  head.  He 
couldn't  bear  the  sight  of  one  of  that  kind,  he  said, 
he  'd  rather  be  with  ploughboys :  he  would  not  even  enter 
one  of  the  reserved  battalions.  "You'd  find  there  some 
fellows  you  liked,"  urged  Cynthia.  "Some!  Yes," 
he  rejoined.  " That  isn 't  enough !  Darling,  I'm  sick  to 
death  of  snobbery.  It 's  a  danger  to  this  country.  So 's 
conceit  and  every  other  illusion.  I  'd  sooner  be  amongst 
people  who  are  grossly  real.  I  must  be  real,  if  I'm 
to  go  through  this  business;  it  won't  be  bearable  else. 
That's  how  I  feel.  I'd  rather  serve  a  chap  like  Semple 
than  mess  with  him  and  be  his  brother  officer,  not  that 
he  may  not  make  a  decent  enough  officer,  but  .  .  .  oh, 
you  understand ! ' ' 

"I'm  afraid  I  do,"  she  said,  sadly. 

"Besides,  I  want  to  get  out  at  once.  The  waiting  is 
the  bad  part,  I'm  sure.  When  I've  been  under  fire  I 
shall  be  easier  in  my  mind  about  myself.  You  see,  I'm 
useful  at  the  butts  and  I  know  my  drill  pretty  well, 
although  I've  never  served — Father  used  to  drill  us 
at  the  first  school  I  was  at;  and  if  I  join  a  Line  regi- 
ment I  may  get  out  with  an  earlier  draft.  I've  been 
round  to-day  to  the  War  Office  and  seen  a  chap  who 
knew  Father  well,  and  he  says  he  can  work  it  for  me 
by  speaking  to  the  Colonel  of  Father's  old  regiment. 
One  battalion  is  near  to  London  and  they  are  sending 
drafts  all  the  time.  I  believe  it  can  be  worked.  I  don't 
feel  I  ought  to  be  an  officer.  I'm  not  suited  for  it." 

"All  right!"  she  said,  trying  to  be  brave  and  cheer- 
ful. She  managed.  She  looked  up  with  a  sort  of  smile, 
but  his  eyes  were  cast  down.  That  was  what  was  most 


TRANSFORMATION  407 

cruel  to  her  now.  He  dared  not  look  directly  at  her 
for  fear  of  weakening  his  resolution. 

"Perhaps  the  war  won't  last  long!"  he  said,  reading 
her  thoughts.  "They  are  fairly  on  the  run  now,  at  all 
events. ' ' 

It  was  the  llth  of  September,  and  next  day  Peter 
enlisted. 

Again  he  was  under  discipline,  which  did  him  no  harm 
at  this  stage  of  his  development,  for  freedom  had  been 
intoxicating  after  the  Great  Company.  How  far  away 
seemed  the  offices  of  the  Great  Company  now !  The 
clerks  stalked  in  his  memory  like  pale  ghosts,  conveying 
horror  to  his  mind.  They  had  seemed  more  unreal  still 
when  he  spoke  with  them  face  to  face.  Even  Brown 
had  not  impressed  him  as  before,  was  withered  somehow ; 
while  Lemon,  to  whom  Peter  had  meant  to  speak  his 
mind,  had  baffled  him — he  did  not  seem  to  be  living 
in  the  same  world.  Peter  had  gone  away  without  a 
word.  Had  they  ever  lived  in  the  same  world?  That 
was  difficult  to  believe  when  the  radiant  image  of  Cyn- 
thia stepped  in  between  in  his  thoughts.  Laurence  Man 
was  a  shadow.  Indeed  all  around  him  in  the  regiment 
were  at  first  shadows  to  Peter, — which  slowly  hardened 
into  reality,  assumed  form,  and  became  alive. 

Drill  was  easy.  He  was  strong  and  fit,  well-liked  by 
his  comrades  and  watched  by  his  officers.  The  Colonel 
sent  for  him  and  offered  to  recommend  him  for  a  com- 
mission, which  he  refused.  "Very  well,  Middleton.  I 
think  you  are  wrong.  Is  there  anything  else  I  could  do 
for  your  father's  son?" 

"I  want  to  go  forward,  sir,"  said  Peter  steadily, 
thinking  what  a  liar  he  was. 

' '  That 's  the  right  spirit ! ' '  approved  the  Colonel,  and 
he  nodded  dismissal.  A  week  later  Peter  was  warned 
and  given  short  leave  to  go  home. 

Why  was  he  anxious  to  go  at  once?  he  asked  himself, 
at  the  close  of  the  first  exquisite  day  of  home ;  was  it  all 
cowardice,  or  was  there  mingled  with  it  an  honest  de- 
sire to  be  up  and  doing?  He  could  not  tell.  With  his 
head  on  Cynthia's  breast,  lying  awake  hot-eyed,  he  could 


408  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

not  tell.  "Please  God  I  do  my  duty,"  he  prayed,  as 
his  father  had  done  before  him  and  many  a  Middleton 
previously,  but  this  Peter  did  not  know  or  think  of. 
He  must  have  prayed  audibly,  for  her  arm  tightened 
about  his  shoulder,  and  then  suddenly  God  seemed  to  be 
in  the  room,  close  beside  in  the  shadows. 

A  long  while  afterwards,  he  spoke  to  her  in  a  hushed 
and  awe-struck  whisper.  "Did  you  know  that  God  is 
Love?"  he  asked.  "I  know  it  now." 

She  clung  to  him,  detecting  the  passionate  happiness 
in  his  voice,  glad  for  him;  while  for  herself  afraid. 
"Shaun  said  so,"  she  murmured  back. 

She  felt  a  thrill;  he  had  trembled.  And  now  he  was 
gently  kissing  her  soft,  rounded  breasts.  She  knew  he 
was  comforting  her,  and  the  tears  sprang  to  her  eyes. 
Ah,  she  was  lonely  then!  "I  can't  believe  that  God  is 
good  when  He  takes  you  away  from  me ! "  she  said.  ' '  I 
can't!" 

"It'll  come!"  he  whispered  hastily,  with  swift  fear 
and  half-belief. 

She  accused  herself,  meaning  far  more  than  she  said : 
"I  haven't  been  to  church  since  we  were  married!" 

"Churches  aren't  everything,"  he  returned.  "I'm  to 
be  blamed  because  you  did  not  go."  His  thoughts  were 
like  flames  leaping  and  dying  after  a  vision,  revealing 
faintly  what  had  been. 

"My  fault!"  she  said. 

"No,  mine." 

"Mine,  Peter."  Her  words  came  freely.  "I  wasn't 
clever  enough  really  to  do  without  church,  I  suppose! 
Perhaps  I  was  too  happy.  I  ought  to  have  gone.  I'm 
not  like  you  or  Shaun.  Women  aren  't.  And  so  I  drifted 
away. ' ' 

He  was  silent,  his  bliss  destroyed. 

She  continued,  with  diffidence.  "I've  never  been 
accustomed  to  go  to  church  regularly.  I  know  it  isn't 
everything,  it  isn't  much,  perhaps.  .  .  .  Humility  is 
everything,  which  you've  always  had  and  I  haven't." 

Now  he  felt  the  throbbing  of  her  heart  under  his  cheek. 
The  smooth  warmth  of  her  was  close,  close  her  fragrance, 


TRANSFOEMATION  409 

her  kindness,  her  beauty,  but  she  and  her  love  seemed 
very  far  away.  They  were  a  pin-point  of  light  beyond 
the  stars,  receding.  What  was  this  that  was  driving  her 
away  from  him  ?  He  searched ;  enduring  in  that  one 
instant  an  agony  of  pain  and  fear.  "God!"  he  cried, 
inwardly,  "God!"  And  the  pin-point  flickered.  It 
stood  still.  It  was  barely  perceptible  among  the  myriad 
stars  of  heaven.  He  clung  to  the  sight  of  it  as  a 
dying  man  might  clutch  at  the  ebbing  tide  of  life, 
and  all  the  while  he  was  searching,  searching  for  the 
cause,  his  thought  coursing  to  and  fro  like  a  hound 
upon  the  scent.  "Why?  Why?  Why?"  The  pin- 
point was  growing  larger,  the  tide  turning.  Love  flowed 
back  into  his  heart.  Love  was  blinding  him  with  its 
great  flame.  God  was  blinding  him;  the  flood  of  light 
swept  upon  and  overwhelmed  him.  A  still,  small  voice 
whispered,  "Where  is  your  humility,  Peter?"  and  he 
awoke,  holding  Cynthia's  warm  body,  while  his  soul 
reached  out  to  her  soul.  ' '  Yes,  God  does  love ! "  he  said, 
aloud;  and  uttered  the  truth  to  her,  saying,  "It  will 
come. ' ' 


XXIX 

THE  memory  of  that  night  did  not  stay  with  Peter.  In 
a  day  or  two  he  had  forgotten  it,  for  he  had  not  re- 
ceived the  vision  rightly.  He  had  taken  it  as  a  per- 
sonal consolation  rather  than  as  a  revelation  of  Truth. 
Nor  did  he  ever  remember  the  fleeting  vision  again. 
It  had  given  him  trust  in  God,  which  did  not  for- 
sake him;  knowledge  of  God  it  did  not  bestow  on  him, 
but  that  might  come  later.  The  girl  pondered  over 
his  words  and  learnt  much  from  them. 

Cynthia  was  so  proud  of  her  soldier  that  she  liked  to 
walk  the  streets  with  him  for  the  youthful  pleasure  of 
seeing  the  passers-by  glance  at  the  tall  figure  in  uniform 
and  for  the  sake  of  occasional  greetings  from  her  friends. 
She  was  conscious  of  a  strange  sensation,  which  was 
enjoyable;  she  was  in  the  background,  accepting  the 
second  glance.  When  she  understood,  she  smiled  with 
happiness;  she  liked  Peter  to  be  first,  and  hardly  since 
she  could  recollect  had  she  been  able  to  enjoy  the 
solitude  of  the  unnoticed.  Not  to  be  stared  at  was 
deliciously  restful  and  unfamiliar. 

They  had  strolled  through  the  mellow  sunshiny  streets 
behind  Park  Lane,  crossed  dear  Oxford  Street  with  its 
roaring  life  of  traffic,  and  turned  into  the  quiet  of  Port- 
man  Square.  Lady  Bremner  was  at  home.  Her  wel- 
come made  them  both  her  children.  Then  Sir  Everard 
entered,  graver  than  of  old  and  very  silent,  but  kind. 
He  took  Peter  into  the  library,  which  was  a  place  of 
unhappy  memories,  but  Peter  saw  at  once  that  they 
were  forgotten.  He  was  the  friend,  speaking  with 
affection,  almost  taking  the  place  of  a  father.  He  spoke 
now  as  Peter  had  longed  then  that  he  might  speak. 

410 


TRANSFORMATION'  411 

The  boy  felt  a  glow  of  thankfulness  and  gratitude. 
To  whom  ?  To  Shaun  and  to  Cynthia,  yes ;  and  here  was 
the  change,  to  God  as  well.  "You  need  not  be  afraid 
for  her  while  you  are  gone.  We  will  look  after  her. 
Don't  be  worried  about  money,  Peter."  There  were 
good-byes — a  warm  handclasp  from  Sir  Everard,  whose 
face  never  lit  now  and  whose  eyes  were  less  keen,  or 
was  it  only  that  they  were  more  kind?  Then  a  plunge 
into  the  drawing-room  to  bid  farewell  to  Lady  Bremner, 
who  kissed  him,  and  he  found  himself  with  Cynthia  in 
the  street.  "I  was  calling  to  you,"  she  said.  "In  my 
heart.  And  you  came.  I  was  afraid  of  crying.  I  don't 
want  to  cry." 

"Perhaps  it  mayn't  be  to-morrow,"  he  said,  to  com- 
fort her. 

' '  You  think  it  will.  I  'm  a  soldier 's  wife,  dear,  I  won 't 
be  silly!  Shall  we  look  in  at  the  Cinema  at  Marble 
Arch  for  a  few  minutes?" 

They  had  formed  a  habit  of  doing  so  in  the  early  days 
of  their  married  life  in  London;  how  long  ago  that 
seemed!  And  Cynthia  wished  to  do  each  of  the  old 
things  that  they  used  to  do,  for  the  last  time  as  it 
were — as  it  must  not  be — to  keep  them  as  memories  when 
he  had  gone. 

1 '  Right ! ' '  said  Peter.    "  I  'm  with  you. ' ' 

But  when  they  turned  in  to  the  darkened  theatre  the 
topical  film  was  just  appearing.  There  were  sentries 
being  relieved,  Canadians  disembarking,  "Naval  Volun- 
teers departing  for  an  unknown  destination." 

' '  I  wonder  whether  it 's  Antwerp ! ' '  murmured  Peter, 
sitting  erect.  "Didn't  you  say  there  was  talk  of 
that?" 

"Madge  said  so." 

The  men  were  marching  past  the  camera  out  of  the 
picture,  while  the  orchestra  played  Rule,  Britannia  and 
the  audience  cheered  and  clapped.  A  few  months  ago 
Peter  would  have  been  thrilled.  He  was  not  thrilled 
now.  He  watched  steadily,  unmoved.  The  faces  filed 
by;  grim,  laughing,  and  devil-may-care  in  endless  pro- 
cession. 


412  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

"A  lot  of  these  chaps  are  scarcely  trained  at  all,"  he 
remarked.  "They  can't  be  sending  them." 

Suddenly  the  girl  shrieked,  unnoticed  amidst  the  din 
of  applause.  She  leaned  forward,  clutching  Peter  and 
pointing.  ' '  Shaun !  Look ! "  she  cried. 

At  first  Peter  did  not  see.  Then  his  rapid  glance 
overtook  his  friend,  who  had  crossed  his  line  of  vision 
unrecognised.  Shaun  looked  weary.  He  was  on  the 
outside  of  his  file.  He  looked  older  in  uniform.  It  was 
all  momentary.  Then  just  as  he  was  moving  out  of 
the  picture  he  half  turned  and  smiled. 

"I'm  glad  he  smiled  to  us!"  said  the  voice  of  Cynthia 
at  his  side,  and  Peter  became  conscious  of  pain  in  his 
forearm,  which  ceased  as  the  girl  leant  back.  She  had 
seized  him  with  a  grip  strong  enough  to  leave  a  dark 
bruise  behind. 

Antwerp  had  already  fallen,  but  Peter  did  not  learn 
the  fate  of  the  King  Alfreds  before  he  went  away,  in 
spite  of  the  fact  that  his  departure  was  postponed  for 
nearly  a  week.  Peter  belonged  to  a  crack  corps  and 
had  no  business  at  all  to  be  in  the  battalion  in  which 
he  found  himself,  among  seasoned  men ;  and  at  the  last 
moment  his  Colonel  had  kept  him  back — being  com- 
pelled, however,  to  send  him  forward  with  the  next  batch 
of  drafts,  owing  to  the  regiment  having  been  badly 
cut  up  during  the  intervening  days.  The  wonder  was 
that  the  men  he  served  with  did  not  resent  Peter's 
presence.  On  the  contrary  he  was  popular,  from  his 
quietness  and  lack  of  assumption  and  because  he  was 
a  soldier's  son  and  had  chosen  of  his  own  accord  to  serve 
in  the  ranks  of  his  father's  old  regiment.  Besides,  there 
was  no  nonsense  about  Peter  and,  although  he  disliked 
it,  soldiering  came  to  him  by  instinct.  He  never  let 
down  his  company  on  parade,  marched  from  the  first 
like  a  veteran,  recovered  at  once  from  his  typhoid  inocu- 
lation, and  gave  no  one  any  trouble  at  all.  What  his 
comrades  failed  to  understand,  after  they  had  seen  him 

with  Cynthia,  was  why  he  was  so  keen  to  get 

out  to  the  front!  There  was  nothing  especially  war- 
like in  his  appearance  or  demeanour.  Peter  himself 


TRANSFORMATION  413 

sometimes  wondered  why  Kitchener's  rules  should  be 
overset  for  an  insignificant  person  like  Private  Middle- 
ton.  It  seemed  that  he  had  gone  straight  to  the  one  man 
in  the  Army  who  had  the  disposition  as  well  as  the 
power  to  give  him  an  early  opportunity  of  being  killed. 
Cynthia  hated  the  Colonel  secretly  and  wished  she  were 
base  enough  to  report  him  to  the  War  Office. 

Peter  departed  from  Charing  Cross  at  three  o'clock 
on  a  chilly  morning,  with  an  icy  wind  wailing  under 
the  roof  of  the  deserted  station  and  a  low  black  sky 
pressing  down,  across  which  withered  grey  scuds  of  cloud 
chased  each  other  at  intervals;  a  weird  and  horrible 
going.  He  had  contrived  to  get  word  to  Cynthia  and 
she  was  there,  looking  like  a  ghost  herself  in  her  long, 
grey  cloak;  but  she  could  not  approach  him.  The  de- 
tachment marched  straight  through  on  to  the  platform. 
She  was  under  a  lamp,  with  her  head,  on  which  she 
wore  no  hat,  thrown  back.  She  caught  a  glimpse  of  him 
and  smiled,  and  he  passed  from  her  seeing  her  smiling 
face  in  the  air  before  him,  suspended  as  a  man  might 
carry  the  memory  of  a  saint  or  a  heroine.  She  looked 
both  in  her  courageous,  pathetic  beauty;  and  so  the 
company  entrained. 

As  she  slipped  out,  elbow  raised,  wrist  across  eyes 
tragically,  a  gliding  figure  of  woe,  other  soldiers  came 
marching  into  the  station  yard,  bearing  their  grey, 
sausage-shaped  kitbags  on  their  shoulders.  Their  tramp- 
ing feet  seemed  to  shake  the  stars  as  they  marched  by 
her  in  unending  procession,  and  she  quivered  and  shook, 
holding  herself  bravely  upright,  a  fist  clenched  at  her 
side,  with  still  those  hidden  eyes!  All  down  the  line 
the  laughter  and  jesting  ceased  as  the  men  passed  her. 
She  was  England,  whom  they  were  leaving.  They,  who 
were  about  to  die,  saluted  her. 


XXX 

"SERGEANT  says  we're  likely  to   'ave  a  quiet  night." 

' '  There  isn  't  much  that  he  doesn  't  know, ' '  responded 
Peter,  without  irony.  His  section  was  lined  up  in  the 
dark  outside  the  officers'  huts,  waiting  to  start  for  the 
trenches  for  its  first  experience  of  warfare.  Three  miles 
or  so  away  were  those  trenches,  in  the  quarter  from 
which  sounded  an  intermittent  rattling  and  banging, 
composed  of  many  different  noises.  Peter  was  disap- 
pointed to  find  a  singular  lack  of  impressiveness  in  this 
distant  pounding.  Every  now  and  then,  apparently  only 
a  short  way  off,  a  light  floated  up  into  the  darkness. 
"German  star-lights,"  said  a  voice  behind  him.  The 
occasional  boom  or  crash  nearer  at  hand  was  unim- 
pressive; but  then  from  the  beginning  Peter  had  been 
struck  by  the  difference  between  the  imagined  and  the 
real  psychology  of  war.  He  had  found  soldiering  a 
drab  business  of  rasping  shirts,  smells,  sweat,  foul 
language,  and  exhausting  toil;  all  of  it  without 
formality  or  pretence,  and  therefore  not  hard  to  endure. 
He  much  preferred  the  coarse  jesting  and  monotonous 
oaths  of  his  present  comrades  to  the  self-conscious 
beastliness  in  the  Great  Company. 

"I  wonder  when  I  shall  begin  to  be  afraid,"  he  was 
asking  himself,  when  his  neighbour  remarked  to  him  in 

a  low  voice,  "Ain't  it  cold?  Why  don't  our 

little  cove  come  out?  'E  don't  think  of  the 

men.  'E  ain  't  no cop ! ' ' 

"Here  am  I  going  into  the  trenches  at  last  and  I 
can't  think  about  anything  but  swear- words, "  said  Peter 
to  himself.  "Why  do  you  always  call  everything 
'bloody'?"  he  murmured,  irritably. 

"Why  not,  guv 'nor?"  inquired  the  Cockney  at  his 

414 


TRANSFORMATION  415 

side,  who  was  a  pal  of  his.  "We  ain't  never  objected 
to  your  not  usin'  the  word." 

"Sorry!" 

' '  Don 't  apolergise !    Yours  is  an  'abit,  same  as  ours. ' ' 

This  presented  a  new  train  of  thought  to  Peter,  in- 
terrupted by  the  dilatory  subaltern,  who  came  out  draw- 
ing on  his  gloves,  adjured  them  to  "pick  up  their  feet 
carefully,"  and  started  them  off  down  the  pave,  past 
lines  of  waiting  troops,  dim  in  the  darkness ;  past  carts 
and  a  row  of  omnibuses.  The  condition  of  the  road  was 
abominable,  and  it  took  the  section  more  than  eighty 
minutes  to  cover  a  stretch  of  two  miles;  then  they 
halted  outside  'headquarters,'  which  appeared  to  be 
the  cellar  of  a  house,  of  which  little  else  remained.  On 
again,  in  single  file,  after  picking  up  their  guide,  who  led 
the  way  across  fields  where  the  mud  was  like  a  living 
thing.  Here  Peter  stepped  out  of  the  line  and  was 
immediately  bogged  to  the  knees.  His  comrades  lugged 
him  out,  everyone  cursing  instinctively.  There  seemed 
even  for  Peter  nothing  else  appropriate  to  say  until  he 
had  emerged  with  a  plop  and  could  thank  them ;  he  had 
been  alarmed  at  the  sensation  of  being  sucked  downward 
as  into  the  centre  of  the  earth  by  some  fiend.  Now  on 
every  side  sounded  snaps  and  cracks  and  whistlings  and 
hissings  and  stirrings.  "Bullets!"  suddenly  thought 
Peter,  and  saw  a  spark  like  a  glow-worm  flash  where  one 
of  them  struck  a  tree,  against  which  a  moment  later  he 
came  bump,  having  stumbled  over  the  falling  body  of  the 
Cockney.  A  flare  went  up,  throwing  a  pale,  sickly  light 
all  around,  and  "Down!"  called  the  sergeant's  voice. 
Peter  was  down  already,  prostrate  beside  his  tree.  His 
cap  had  tumbled  off,  his  head  was  touching  the  head  of 
his  chum,  who  did  not  move.  There  was  cold,  dank 
mud  beneath  his  cheek  and  presently  a  warm  moisture 
spread  into  his  hair  and  trickled  through  to  his  forehead. 
Jerking  himself  away  he  glanced  round  and  saw  a  profile 
near,  which  stared  upward  with  dropped  and  hanging 
jaw.  It  was  the  first  time  Peter  had  seen  death. 

' '  This  is  beastly, ' '  he  thought,  as  they  lurched  forward 
Hgain  into  darkness,  ' '  this  is  a  very  beastly  sensation. ' ' 


416  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

He  felt  a  kind  of  sickness  at  the  pit  of  his  stomach,  a 
brassy  taste  in  his  mouth  and  a  confusion  in  his  brain, 
and  he  knew  that  he  was  ducking  automatically  as  he 
strode.  "This  is  fear,  all  right."  Another  flash  from 
the  sky  broke  in  a  tremendous  uproar.  Down  dropped 
the  line  of  figures  again,  Peter  with  his  nose  over  the 
edge  of  a  big  crater  of  the  width  of  a  street.  The 
thought  that  this  was  a  shell  hole  sent  a  creeping  horror 
up  his  spine.  "Forward,"  came  the  order,  and  off  he 
went,  hanging  on  now  to  the  tunic  of  the  man  in  front, 
for  the  track  here  wound  in  and  out;  and  they  lost  a 
man  who  was  carrying  a  sack  of  coke  and  had  to  haul 
him  out  of  a  smaller  round  hole  filled  with  water.  And 
then  they  crawled  on  all  fours  and  stopped  and  crawled 
again  until  they  came  to  a  sloping  gap  which  led  into 
the  communication  trench. 

' '  Very  unpleasant,  but  it  might  -be  worse, ' '  said  Peter 
to  himself,  with  philosophy.  His  head  was  steady  again 
and  the  sick  feeling  had  passed  away.  Literature,  he 
decided,  had  exaggerated  the  terrors  of  being  shot  at. 
It  wasn't  a  bit  like  anything  he  had  seen  described.  It 
was  more  unpleasant  and  less  appalling,  more  like  a 
visit  to  the  dentist  than  a  descent  into  Hell.  He  thought 
vividly  for  a  few  moments  in  flashes,  saw  pictures — 
Cynthia  running,  the  dining-room  at  Portman  Square, 
Shaun  's  face  bending  over  an  open  book,  Cynthia 's  eyes, 
her  mouth  and  chin  in  a  mist — then  tripped,  glimpsed 
dead  Tippins's  staring  profile,  shuddered,  and  came  back 
to  the  present.  He  was  cold,  the  dead  man's  blood 
was  drying  on  his  temple,  and  the  sergeant  was  shov- 
ing him  into  a  side-gallery. 

Then  he  hurried  through  a  labyrinth  of  burrows,  dodg- 
ing right  and  left  after  a  new  guide,  who  had  been  wait- 
ing at  a  corner  where  six  roads  branched  off.  "Keep 
your  heads  down,  men."  "We've  got  a  long  way  to 
go!"  said  a  voice  behind.  The  new  guide  turned  and 
whispered  confidentially  to  Peter,  "No  distance  really. 
The  communication  trench  will  be  five  times  this  length 
in  a  month  or  two."  "Yes,  sir,"  said  Peter,  and  found 
himself  all  of  a  sudden  in  the  trench  proper,  recognising 


TRANSFORMATION  417 

it  by  the  parapet  of  sandbags  and  the  row  of  figures 
huddled  in  niches,  slightly  raised  above  the  six  inches 
of  mud  and  water  that  formed  the  bottom  of  the  ditch. 
The  word  made  him  think  of  country  lanes,  and  then 
he  was  stationed  behind  one  of  these  figures,  and  waited 
while  officers  and  non-commissioned  officers  shoved  past 
him  to  and  fro,  murmuring  explanations  and  orders  to 
each  other  and  the  men. 

"Good  evening!"  muttered  Peter,  civilly,  to  the  back 
of  the  man  he  was  about  to  relieve. 

' '  Evenin ',  me  lord !  Sorry  your  lordship  should  'ave 
to  stand  in  the  mud,  but  we  'ad  no  notice  you  was 
com  in'." 

"Been  busy?" 

"Last  night,  yes.  I  dessay  you'll  'ave  to  dig  in  a  lot 
of  our  chaps.  We  ain  't  'ad  time. ' '  Something  moaned 
overhead.  "I  call  them  seagulls,  I  do." 

' '  How  long  will  it  take  to  relieve  you  ? ' ' 

"Don't  know  nothin'  of  time  in  'ere.  Best  part  of 
a  hower,  I  dessay.  Look  'ere,  son.  You  get  that 

sniper  who  bobs  up  behind  the  wilier-tree 

stump.  'E  got  my  pal  last  night  afore  they  started 
shellin'  us.  I  leave  'im  to  you.  I  bequeath  'im!  'E's 
a  Bosher  an'  a  'arf.  Any  of  your  chaps  finish,  comin' 
in?" 

"My  chum  did,"  said  Peter,  suddenly  feeling  a  kind 
of  shocked  loneliness  at  the  thought  and  betrayed  into 
speaking  aloud,  whereupon  came  a  hoarse,  angry  growl 
of  "Hold  yer  jaw!"  from  an  N.C.O. 

"Mind,  I  leave  the  to  you,"  whispered  the 

man  in  front,  when  at  last  the  order  to  change  places 
ran  down  the  line;  and  Peter  stepped  up  with  a  con- 
sciousness of  being  at  the  front  of  the  British  Army. 
There  was  the  darkness  that  contained  the  enemy,  and 
it  spat,  buzzed,  yelled,  moaned,  and  crashed  for  some 
five  minutes  as  though  in  greeting  of  his  arrival.  Mean- 
while he  crouched  uncertain  whether  his  head  were 
under  cover  or  no. 

All  at  once  a  thin  flame  shot  up  rocket-like,  burst,  and 
hung  glowing  in  the  air.  It  lit  the  scene  like  a  brighter 


418  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

moonlight,  and  Peter  saw  a  network  of  barbed  wire  in 
front  of  and  below  him.  Shifting  his  gaze  onward  he 
saw  quite  near  a  long  mound  of  earth  with  steel  shields 
shining  in  it  like  window-panes;  it  was  criss-crossed 
with  barbed  wire  before  it,  which  was  white  with  dew. 
The  heads  of  a  couple  of  Huns  disappeared,  simul- 
taneously with  an  outburst  of  rifle  firing  from  both 
sides.  Of  one  moon-face  he  retained  a  clear  impres- 
sion, which  often  flashed  later  across  his  memory.  At 
the  moment  he  forgot  it  utterly  in  swift  search  for 
the  stump  of  a  willow.  There  was  a  line  of  short,  stunted 
pollards  some  way  back,  approaching  the  German  trench 
from  behind  obliquely,  yes,  and  a  stump;  when  a 
whizzing  sound  whistled  through  his  hair  and  carried 
his  cap  off.  Furious  with  the  anger  that  the  first  ex- 
perience of  being  aimed  at  seldom  fails  to  rouse  in  a 
recruit,  he  let  fly,  foolishly  and  at  random,  and  ducked. 

"  'Ere,  you  clumsy  mooncalf,  you  'it  me  in  the  eye 

with  your cap !  Can 't  you  keep  it  on  your  silly 

'ead?  'Ow  d'you  think  I'm  goin'  to  clean  out  this 
gawd-forsaken  drain  if  you  put  my  eye  out?"  came  a 
grumble  from  behind,  and  Peter  became  conscious,  as 
the  light  waned  and  dwindled  into  darkness,  of  a  new 
sensation,  or  rather  the  absence  of  one.  The  'dental 
chamber'  feeling  had  gone.  "It's  beastly,"  he  thought 
to  himself,  "but  I'll  make  it  a  damned  sight  beastlier 
for  them ! ' '  He  felt  savagely  resentful  towards  the  Hun 
who  had  had  the  impudence  to  attempt  to  make  Cynthia 
unhappy.  There  was  something  surprising  about  it. 
He  realised  the  inherent  wickedness  of  war.  The  Hun 
meant  to  kill  him,  but  he  jolly  well  wasn  't  going  to,  not 
while  Peter  knew  it! 

This  mood  lasted  during  the  next  two  hours ;  then  he 
began  to  calm  down  and  take  a  businesslike  view  of 
things,  made  himself  comfortable  in  his  niche  and  ad- 
justed his  mind  to  the  business  in  hand.  Flares  went  up 
at  intervals,  and  once  Peter  thought  he  got  a  bullet 
through  a  loophole  in  one  of  the  steel  shields,  but  of 
course  he  could  not  be  sure.  There  were  a  heap  of 
stones  around  one  of  the  posts  which  supported  the 


TRANSFORMATION  419 

German  wire  entanglement, — perhaps  it  had  once 
marked  a  grave:  the  sight  of  the  sparks  flying  from 
these  stones  was  curious;  each  time  a  flare  went  up 
somebody  aimed  too  low.  The  smell  of  the  moist  earth 
reminded  Peter  of  a  garden  in  Sussex.  Oddly  enough, 
Joyce  was  more  present  to  his  mind  than  Cynthia  in 
those  long,  black  hours  of  cold  and  waiting  and  cautious 
staring  into  thick  night,  which  suddenly  broke  up  into 
pin-points  of  flame  that  crackled  like  whip-lashes,  or  else 
blazed  into  that  unearthly  bluish-white  moonshine.  Cyn- 
thia was  in  his  heart,  but  little  Joyce  seemed  close  by 
his  side,  cheering  him  with  her  friendly  chatter;  Peter 
had  not  known  how  fond  he  was  of  her.  She  seemed 
to  be  telling  him  that  he  would  come  back  to  Cynthia. 

Peter  was  half-frozen  by  the  time  he  was  relieved  at 
four  o'clock.  He  and  his  comrades  crouched  in  a 
'  f unkhole '  round  a  charcoal  brazier  and  tried  in  vain  to 
thaw  the  whole  of  their  bodies  at  once,  although  they 
were  muffled  already  like  Tweedledum  and  Tweedledee. 
And  this  was  only  a  first  taste  of  the  cold  of  winter — 
nothing  to  the  nights  that  must  come.  They  talked  of 
eating-houses  and  of  music-halls,  football  being  too  chilly 
a  subject;  the  very  thought  of  looking  on  at  a  football 
match  made  these  Londoners  feel  colder. 

With  daylight,  came  permission  to  sleep,  which  Peter 
did  not  hear,  as  he  had  already  drowsed  off  where  he 
sat;  "Let  the  kid  alone,"  the  men  had  told  one  an- 
other. He  was  awakened  by  the  trickling  of  mud  and 
water  down  his  neck  from  the  wall  of  the  dugout, 
against  which  he  was  leaning  back.  It  was  then  time 
for  another  meal,  which  was  accompanied  by  a  row 
outside  like  the  noise  of  London  traffic,  with  motors 
throbbing  unusually  loud  and  exhaust-pipes  blowing  off 
every  few  seconds;  most  of  the  traffic  seemed  to  consist 
of  motor-bicycles.  Overhead  went  yells  and  screams 
and  rumblings  and  bangs,  but  all  was  quiet  again  when 
Peter  was  turned  out.  He  was  shocked  to  see  the  legs 
of  a  corpse,  and  its  bearer,  disappearing  into  a  com- 
munication trench.  "Who's  that?"  "Sergeant."  The 
sergeant  had  been  like  a  father  to  him,  though  not  an 


420  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

indulgent  one,  and  had  a  wife  and  five  kiddies  at 
home. 

This  man  had  warned  him,  ''The  worst  part  of  active 
service  is  when  you've  got  nothin'  to  do  but  think  and 
ain  't  too  tired  to. ' '  Well,  Peter  supposed  that  was  true. 
Certainly  up  to  the  present  the  anticipation  had  been 
more  hideous  than  the  reality.  He  had  seen  sights  both 
grotesque  and  horrible,  which  had  not  struck  him  as 
meriting  those  adjectives.  Reality  has  a  dignity  of  its 
own,  which  realism  lacks.  Perhaps,  being  a  soldier's 
son,  he  was  more  fitted  for  a  military  life  than  he  had 
thought,  for  he  found  himself  cool.  He  had  proved  fear 
and  found  it  a  nasty  feeling  to  be  endured,  not  a  terror 
which  gripped  a  man  by  the  throat;  and  evidently  one 
forgot  it.  That  was  a  great  relief,  almost  as  great  as 
the  relief  had  been  of  learning  that  Cynthia's  love  was 
his,  and  he  took  up  his  position  at  his  loophole  stiff  and 
sore,  but  with  an  easier  mind  than  he  had  had  since 
the  beginning  of  the  war. 

He  had  been  moved  some  distance  along  the  line, 
which  he  now  perceived  to  run  up  the  slope  of  a  low 
hill,  or  rather  mound,  over  the  summit  of  which  it  dis- 
appeared. The  German  trenches  proved  in  daylight  to 
be  only  a  hundred  and  fifty  yards  away  at  their  nearest 
point.  He  was  amazed  to  see  how  the  ground  below 
was  pitted  with  shell  holes ;  it  seemed  an  impossible  busi- 
ness to  charge  across  and  get  through  the  barbed-wire 
entanglement  in  the  face  of  rifle  and  perhaps  machine- 
gun  fire.  From  where  he  was,  the  sniper's  stump  was 
not  visible,  but  he  could  see  five  slender  willows  and 
presently  after  a  puff  of  black  smoke  and  loud  report 
there  were  only  four.  He  looked  at  the  gap  in  the  row 
and  thought  to  himself  that  war  was  just  knocking 
things  down  and  breaking  them,  an  uncivilised,  brutal 
business  and  no  mistake.  Then  he  perceived  three  or 
four  round  pulpy  masses  between  him  and  the  Huns, 
which  once,  yes,  by  Jove,  they  had  been  haycocks! 

Peter's  time  of  watchfulness  passed  without  move- 
ment on  the  part  of  the  enemy.  He  shot  a  cap  off  and 
hoped  there  was  a  head  beneath  it.  Judging  from  what 


TRANSFORMATION  421 

was  going  on  behind  him  he  thought  it  more  likely  there 
had  been  a  stick  or  a  bayonet. 

A  meal,  some  unpleasant  fatigue  duties,  a  postcard  for 
Cynthia — Peter  suddenly  discovered  that  he  was  too 
excited  to  write  a  letter, — and  then  the  word  was  passed 
for  Middleton.  "Can  you  draw,  Middleton?  Then  go 

to  No.  3  and  report  to  Captain .  Keep  your  head 

down."  The  lieutenant  who  spoke  dived  into  the 
officer's  messroom,  a  luxurious  dwelling  roofed  with  two 
doors  torn  from  some  deserted  mansion,  while  a  murmur 
arose  behind  Peter  floundering  out  into  the  mud,  "That 
blighter's  always  gettin'  the  wind  up."  The  captain  in 
question  was  unpopular. 

However  the  cause  of  his  wanting  Peter  had  nothing 
to  do  with  panic  or  excitement.  He  had  been  trying  to 
sketch  the  scene  through  a  hyposcope  and,  making  a  poor 
job  of  it,  had  sent  for  help,  which  Peter  rejoiced  to  give. 
This  was  the  opportunity  of  all  others  he  had  desired — 
to  gain  some  idea  of  what  was  going  on  around  him. 
And  yet  there  was  little  to  be  gathered,  although  he 
was  now  on  the  summit  of  the  eminence,  from  inspec- 
tion of  the  dull  plain  stretching  on  every  hand.  It  was 
scored  with  lines  which  might  be  trenches  and  might  be 
water-courses.  It  was  withered  and  battered  incon- 
ceivably, and  over  parts  of  it  was  drifting  a  grey,  hover- 
ing smoke.  To  the  left,  Peter  looked  through  a  deserted 
village  some  half  a  mile  away,  made  remarkable  by  its 
church  of  which  the  top  part  of  the  steeple  was  leaning 
over  at  right  angles.  So  he  drew  it,  and  then,  peering 
again,  made  out  that  a  gigantic  image  had  been  knocked 
sideways  and  not  detached.  To  the  right,  he  caught 
glimpses  of  a  winding  river,  far  distant,  which  gleamed 
silver  under  a  spurt  of  sunshine,  and  vanished  again. 
A  few  smoking  ruins  and  skeleton  houses  were  visible 
in  the  landscape.  As  he  watched,  one  of  the  houses 
collapsed. 

All  was  calm.  All  was  still.  Peter  had  just  noted 
how  much  wider  and  higher  was  the  enemy's  wire  en- 
tanglement than  ours,  when  an  aeroplane  sailed  into  view 
overhead.  Immediately  its  path  was  marked  by  a  tail 


422  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

of  bursting  shrapnel,  showing  that  somewhere  Archibald, 
the  patron  saint  of  anti-aircraft  guns,  was  alive  and 
awake.  Confound  Archibald !  But  the  aeroplane 
mounted  higher  and  disappeared,  just  as  Peter  was 
called  away.  He  had  already  learned  that  a  soldier 
seldom  sees  the  end  of  an  incident  in  war,  unless  he 
has  missed  its  beginning. 

At  three  o'clock  sharp  the  bombardment  was  opened 
by  a  solitary  'boom,'  and  five  minutes  after  that  the 
air  was  splitting  with  the  scream  of  shells  and  the  bump- 
ing noise  of  the  bursting  high  explosive.  The  racket 
was  deafening,  crash  and  shriek  and  thud  being  indis- 
tinguishable ;  its  effect,  paralysing  at  first,  and  far  more 
horrible  than  rifle  fire,  even  when  the  ear  became  more 
or  less  accustomed  to  the  infernal  din.  This  went  on 
for  ten  minutes,  which  seemed  to  Peter  hours — for- 
tunately he  was  employed  carrying  sandbags  for  the 
building  of  a  traverse,  a  warm,  stiff  job  which  left  no 
opportunity  for  psychologic  analysis.  Once  he  was 
knocked  down  and  nearly  smothered  in  the  black  mud 
that  rose  like  a  fountain  from  every  hit,  but  so  far 
no  one  in  the  trench  had  been  damaged.  The  barbed 
wire  had  suffered,  a  few  sandbags  had  sailed  fifty  feet 
into  the  air,  disintegrating;  and  the  communication 
trenches  were  having  a  bad  time.  Then  the  German 
gunners  got  the  range  and  shells  began  to  fall  in  the 
trench  itself.  There  was  too  much  row  to  think.  Peter 
had  a  vague  feeling  that  he  would  never  see  Cynthia 
again ;  nevertheless  she  seemed  close.  He  was  sent  from 
his  traverse  to  build  up  the  parapet  of  the  trench, 
which  meant  a  crouching  run  of  fifty  yards  to  another 
pile  of  sandbags.  But  when  he  reached  them  they  were 
gone  and  the  dugout  in  front  of  them  had  gone  too, 
and  the  rifles  of  the  squad  with  which  he  was  working. 
Only  a  pile  of  rubbish  remained,  blocking  the  way.  Over 
was  certain  death,  for  the  bullets  were  coming  side- 
ways in  sheets.  The  only  thing  to  do  was  to  return  for 
spades,  and  dig.  The  corporal  jerked  him  back  as  he 
was  starting  to  climb,  and  when  Peter  recovered  his 
balance  and  turned  he  saw  the  file  retreating.  There 


TRANSFORMATION  423 

was  no  question  of  orders,  they  could  not  be  heard; 
it  was  push  and  point  and  follow-your-leader.  Peter 
started  to  follow.  He  was  now  three  yards  behind  the 
corporal;  on  his  right,  the  back  of  a  soldier,  for  all 
niches  had  been  filled  up  as  the  men  stood  to  arms.  The 
corporal  disappeared  round  an  angle  and  the  spade 
of  the  first  man  returning,  held  most  dangerously  at 
the  charge,  appeared  past  him  at  the  same  moment.  It 
was  the  last  thing  Peter  saw.  He  had  a  perception  of 
rising  feet  into  the  air  and  whirling  round,  and  then 
every  faculty  was  invaded  and  blotted  out  in  one 
stupendous  crash.  His  seven  senses  were  annihilated  in 
flame ;  and  there  was  no  more  Peter. 


XXXI 

FIRST  he  became  conscious  of  a  stirring,  a  criss-cross  of 
innumerable,  waving,  grey  lines;  they  opened  out  and 
showed  him  glimpses  of  a  ceiling  which  was  not  white, 
a  smoke-stained  ceiling,  and  then  a  voice  roared  into 
his  ear  with  brazen  clangour  like  a  trumpet,  but  he 
could  not  distinguish  the  words  it  said.  There  was  a 
distant  buzzing  that  reminded  him  of  something,  and 
people  spoke  far  away.  The  mist  swirled  and  quivered 
from  the  effort  he  was  making,  but  the  gaps  in  it  had 
closed  up ;  and  he  leaned  back,  as  he  thought,  dreamily, 
and  asked  with  resignation,  ''Am  I  in  a  telephone, 
please?" 

For  a  moment  there  came  no  answer.  Still  he  had  a 
recollection  of  having  heard  the  words  uttered,  which 
helped  to  dissipate  the  mists,  even  though  the  voice 
which  had  spoken  was  weak  and  unfamiliar.  He  thought 
that  he  had  spoken  himself.  The  ceiling  was  clear  now 
and  as  he  lowered  his  eyes  a  decided,  girlish  voice 
answered  with  a  Scottish  rolling  of  gutturals,  "You  are 
in  a  Base  Hospital,  soldier-r,  and  all  r-right!"  She 
had  sandy  hair  and  freckles  and  looked  immensely  ca- 
pable. Where  had  she  come  from  ?  What  was  she  doing 
in  a  trench  that  had  suddenly  changed  into  a  Base 
Hospital  ?  What  was  a  Base  Hospital,  then  ?  ' '  A-ah ! ' ' 
he  sighed,  remembering.  "You've  wor-rked  your 
ticket!"  said  the  nurse,  encouragingly.  "Cheer  up!" 
Her  small,  blue  eyes  were  staring  at  him. 

Perhaps  she  thought  that  he  did  not  understand  the 
soldiers'  slang,  for  she  added,  "You're  going  home  verry 
soon.  We  have  not  r-room  for  ye,  he-re!" 

Peter  was  conscious  of  a  violent  headache  and  pain  a 
long  distance  off,— could  it  be  in  his  leg?  He  felt 

424 


TRANSFORMATION  425 

drowsy.  "It  was  a  shell,  I  suppose?"  he  whispered. 
"Where  was  I  hit?" 

"It  did  not  hit  ye  at  all!"  she  said  with  Scotch 
literalness,  but  stiU  his  eyes  remained  open,  and  she 
picked  up  a  tablet  that  was  hanging  from  the  foot  of 
the  bed  by  a  string.  "I  will  tell  you  what  is  the 
matter-r,  soldier-r,  and  then  you  will  go  to  sleep,  yes?" 

He  blinked,  and  was  almost  asleep;  then  his  eyes 
opened  again,  and  she  thought  there  was  anxiety  in 
them.  His  whole  face  said,  "Please!" 

"Shock,  so  you  must  be  verry  quiet,  and  par-rtial 
dislocation  of  the  patella  (left) — that's  your  knee-cap, 
nothing  at  all — and  some  splinters  in  your  r-right  foot, 
which  we  've  takken  oot.  Ye  '11  do  fine !  Good  morning, 
soldier."  She  rose,  without  haste,  smiling,  and  as  she 
did  so  was  snatched  from  Peter  and  vanished  into  dark- 
ness. 


XXXII 

THIS  was  a  beneficent,  health-giving  darkness,  very 
different  from  that  first  terrible  possession  of  him  by 
flame  and  wind.  And  only  a  week  later  he  sniffed  sea- 
smells  and  drowsed  into  the  cool,  bright  ward  of  a 
hospital  in  Sussex,  where  he  awoke  to  find  a  girl  bending 
over  him,  in  a  dress  the  colour  of  autumn  leaves  and 
a  black  hat  that  framed  her  face,  her  beautiful  face 
with  sparkling  eyes,  which  shone  and  dwelt  on  him 
so  lovingly!  She  was  adorable,  this  kind,  tender, 
Madonna  girl;  he  had  dreamed  of  her.  He  tried  to 
raise  himself  on  his  elbow  to  look,  and  just  as  fear 
flickered  in  her  gaze,  it  all  came  back  to  him  and  he 
whispered,  ' '  Cynthia ! ' ' 

"You  must  not  talk!"  she  said.  "Lie  back  quietly, 
please,  please,  Peter,  or  they  might  not  let  me  come 
again!" 

But  the  sight  of  her  had  brought  with  it  full  recollec- 
tion and  a  curiosity  that  he  had  not  felt  during  the 
week  of  somnolence.  "I  suppose  we  did  hold  that 
trench  all  right?"  he  asked,  wistfully,  for  the  first  time. 
Never  before  had  his  brain  been  active  enough  for  doubt. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  confessed. 

"Is  there  anyone  of  our  chaps  here?" 

She  glided  away,  while  he  lay  wishing  feebly  that  he 
had  not  sent  her,  for  she  passed  out  of  sight  in  a  mo- 
ment, leaving  an  empty  world.  "What  a  graceful  girl 
she  is!"  he  thought.  "It's  like  a  strain  of  music  dying 
away  when  she  goes." 

"That  strain  again;  it  hath  a  dying  fall: 
0,  it  came  o'er  my  ear  like  the  sweet  south 
That  breathes  upon  a  batik  of  violets, 
Stealing,  and  giving   odour!  .  .  ." 

426 


TRANSFORMATION  427 

He  was  proud  of  his  comparison;  and  then  was  vexed, 
and  angry  tears  leapt  to  his  eyes  because  she  had  gone. 
He  had  not  guessed  how  weak  he  was,  but  at  all  events 
he  was  himself  again,  the  dulness  of  stupor  had  lifted. 
Why,  he  had  not  known  his  wife,  had  not  recognised  his 
darling.  .  .  . 

The  music  rose  again.  She  came,  smiling.  "No, 
there's  no  one  here,  but  they  say  the  trench  must  have 
been  held,  or  you  could  not  have  been  brought  in.  Oh, 
Peter !  It  is  sweet  to  see  you.  And  I  put  on  my  nicest 
things.  I  was  wearing  an  ermine  coat ;  not  extravagance ! 
I  bought  it  before  we  were  engaged,  with  a  legacy  which 
came  to  me.  And  I  must  show  it  to  you  now,  for  I 
took  it  off  while  I  watched  you,  because  I  felt  hot  with 
excitement,  Peter.  Are  my  cheeks  flushed?  They  say 
I  had  better  go,  and  come  back  to-morrow.  Darling, 
darling,  good-bye!" 

Soft  music  fluttered  into  silence,  and  he  slept. 

Cynthia  had  had  no  presentiment  of  what  had  oc- 
curred. She  had  been  thinking  of  him  while  dressing 
for  tea  at  her  mother's,  but  no  thrill  of  fear  had  warned 
her  he  was  struck  down.  When  the  news  came  she  had 
felt  disloyal.  Mingled  with  her  happy  relief  was  a 
sense  of  shame  that  she  should  not  have  been  aware  of 
what  was  happening  to  her  man.  How  she  had  wor- 
shipped the  Scotch  nurse,  who  had  found  time  to  write 
a  reassurance!  "He  was  only  temporarily  deaf  and 
not  blind  at  all,  for  which  we  may  be  very  thankful. 
I  think  he  will  get  quite  well,  and  the  surgeons  think 
it  also,  since  he  has  youth  and  health."  Her  strong, 
kind,  splendid  Peter!  Her  Peter!  She  had  flown  to 
the  War  Office  and  been  advised  patience,  and  her 
mother  had  been  very  tender,  and  then  Sir  Everard 
had  found  out  to  which  hospital  he  was  assigned,  and  the 
sympathetic  servants  had  been  placed  on  board  wages, 
and  again  Cynthia  had  travelled  into  Sussex,  this  time 
alone  and  first  class,  given  into  the  care  of  the  guard 
by  her  father.  She  had  made  the  journey  with  her 
hands  clasping  the  ram's  horn  which  they  had  picked 
up  on  Brown  Willy.  She  had  found  it  in  a  drawer  in 


428  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

the  course  of  packing  when  hunting  for  a  lace  scarf, 
and  it  fitted  into  her  muff:  and  now  she  clung  to  it 
desperately  as  to  her  memory  of  past  happiness ;  it  was 
a  symbol  that  the  past  was  not  wholly  lost.  Then  had 
come  the  arrival  at  a  strange  farmhouse,  whose  address 
a  friend  had  given  to  Lady  Bremner,  and  the  silence 
after  the  rattle  of  the  streets  and  the  racket  of  the  train, 
and  the  awaking  to,  in  place  of  thick  curtains  and  the 
glimpse  of  chimney-pots,  an  open  lattice  window  and  a 
hedge,  dew-spangled,  like  a  network  of  gossamer  against 
a  primrose  sunrise  sky. 

The  clarion  call  of  a  cock  had  been  her  bugle.  She 
had  breakfasted  in  bed,  and  dressed  with  haste  and  gone 
forth  to  see  her  soldier. 

They  were  wonderful,  those  first  days  of  Peter's  re- 
covery. Still  some  birds  were  calling  from  the  hedges; 
their  song  was  divine  to  Cynthia.  And  when  a  pair  of 
goldfinches  flashed  across  the  lane,  or  a  robin  tossed 
upon  a  twig,  piping  poignant-sweet,  or  a  wren  flitted 
along  the  hedgerow,  or  once  when,  walking  briskly  in 
the  frosty  air  towards  the  hospital,  she  saw  a  gaggle  of 
wild  geese  flying  high,  four  birds  and  a  leader,  with  their 
curious  hard-flapping  flight,  she  felt  herself  a  part  of 
nature,  she  felt  that  nature  was  rejoicing  with  her  and 
that  she  sang  one  little  note  in  a  universal  jubilation. 
That  morning  she  was  able  to  speak  to  Peter. 

She  said,  slightly  blushing,  ' '  I  want  you  to  forgive  me 
for  something — if  you  are  not  too  tired  to  talk,  my 
darling. ' ' 

He  smiled,  still  lying  flat,  still  feeble;  but  looking 
now  more  like  the  Peter  that  she  knew. 

' '  Yes,  but  you  may  not !  Only  I  was  not  sure,  though 
I  ought  to  have  been.  Besides,  it  was  easier  to  let  you 
go  not  knowing.  And  I  was  foolish,  Peter!  I  am  still, 
but  you'll  help  me  and  understand.  Do  you?" 

His  eyes  had  grown  bewildered.  "Is  it  news  of 
Shaun?"  he  asked  quickly.  "Tell  me,  please.  At  once, 
dear!" 

She  started  in  horror.  "No,  no,  no!"  she  exclaimed. 
"There  is  no  news  of  Shaun.  He's  still  missing!" 


TRANSFORMATION  429 

Peter  raised  himself  on  one  elbow.    ' '  Missing ! ' ' 

"I  forgot  you  did  not  know.  He  may  be  a  prisoner, 
Peter!  There  may  be  hope." 

"What  happened  to  the  King  Alfreds,  then?" 

"Most  of  them  are  interned.  Oh,  I  forgot  you  had 
not  had  time  to  get  our  letters!" 

He  fixed  his  gaze  intently  on  her  face,  sinking  back. 
In  that  moment  he  could  not  remember  Shaun.  ' '  Then, 
is  it  .  .  .  ? "  he  asked. 

She  nodded,  blinded  by  tears  from  this  meeting  of 
death  and  life.  Then,  low  she  said,  "Yes!  You  are 
glad,  aren  't  you  ?  Dear,  I  want  you  to  be  glad ! ' '  When 
after  a  long,  long  silence  she  could  see  again,  she  forgot 
to  doubt ;  and  he  began  murmuring  sweet  thanks  to  her, 
tender  praises.  "Darling!"  .  .  .  "Darling!"  "Fancy 
its  happening  to  us!"  came  the  old  cry  familiar  from 
the  beginning  of  the  world.  He  said,  "Brilliant  Shaun 
is  childless,  and  we  commonplace —  He  did  not 

finish,  while  she  recollected,  terror-stricken  suddenly, 
that  he  was  not  safe  yet  himself,  thought  how  he  must 
go  back.  "Don't!"  she  implored. 

"Is  there  any  hope  for  him?" 

She  had  to  admit,  "Not  much." 

"I  say!"  His  face  twitched  and  he  turned  aside, 
burying  it  in  the  pillow.  He  had  realised. 

But  since  now  she  must  be  kept  from  all  thought  of 
sorrow  he  compelled  himself  quickly  to  look  back,  and 
said,  ' '  He  wanted  it,  the  dear  old  chap !  It 's  all  right. 
Forgive  me."  He  swallowed  and  stopped;  and  lay 
meditating  with  one  hand  weakly  outstretched  for  her 
to  hold,  gave  one  of  his  slow,  kindly  smiles.  "It's  all 
right,  darling!"  Then,  "We  are  wiser  for  having 
known  him,  better,  too ;  and  the  child  won 't  repeat  our 
mistakes.  And  there 's  his  work.  That  lives.  .  .  .  God 's 
good,  you  see!" 

"I'm  learning  to  pray,  now,"  said  Cynthia. 

The  days  passed  by  without  news  of  Shaun.  He  had 
disappeared  in  the  retreat  from  Antwerp,  leaving  not  a 
trace.  A  comrade  wrote  from  Holland  where  he  was 
interned,  He  made  a  joke  cmd  that  is  the  last  I  remember 


430  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

of  Kim.  Another  man  said,  I  believed  he  was  wounded; 
I'm  not  certain.  He  was  a  good  fellow.  A  prisoner 
wrote,  I'm  sure  he  died  fighting.  He  isn't  with  us. 
He  was  a  queer  bloke,  and  he  was  a  rare  good  sort;  he 
could  spin  yarns  by  the  hour.  An  officer  who  returned 
told  Peter  that  James  was  very  much  liked.  ' '  He  could 
always  tell  what  was  going  to  happen.  He  would  have 
made  a  fine  general."  This  man  described  him  also  as 
a  firstrate  sailor,  anxious  to  get  to  sea.  Then  Shaun 
must  have  been  disappointed  at  going  to  Antwerp,  Peter 
thought,  and  he  sighed,  while  the  lieutenant  went  on, 
"A  C.P.O.  overheard  your  friend  tell  another  man  that 
he  always  ran  away  when  a  battle  began,  and  came  to 
pass  me  the  word,  but  I  laughed  at  him.  The  last  thing 
I  saw  of  James  he  was  going  strong."  But  this  was 
the  night  before  the  retreat. 

The  days  passed  by,  and  the  young  husband  and  wife 
learned  to  regard  each  other  more  calmly,  although  for 
weeks  each  caught  the  other's  eyes  fixed  upon  his  or 
hers  with  a  look  of  shining  wonder.  Peter  had  returned 
as  it  were  from  the  dead,  and  Cynthia  was  to  him  a 
living  miracle.  Nor  did  she  cease  to  be  in  becoming 
once  more  the  girl  he  loved,  but  he  thought  of  it  less 
often,  and  won  back  his  comrade  by  slow  degrees — for 
at  first  after  her  announcement  she  had  been  shy  of  him. 
It  was  only  slowly  that  she  came  back.  Although  really 
unaltered  in  personal  appearance  she  seemed  to  him 
often  to  wear  the  Madonna  look.  Gradually  be  became 
used  to  her. 

Through  the  hospital  window  he  could  see  the  rain- 
clouds  scurrying  across  the  downs  with  broad  beams  of 
winter  sunshine  breaking  between  them,  or  a  clear  and 
snowy  sky.  When  he  got  up  first  the  downs  were  white 
with  frost,  and  when  he  went  into  the  open  air  every 
hedge  was  red  and  black  with  berries.  Hips  and  haws 
were  innumerable ;  they  covered  the  bushes,  bestowing 
a  depth  of  colour  that  was  wine-rich  from  a  distance, 
but  shallow  and  scarlet  when  seen  close  to;  which  Peter 
achieved  sooner  than  anyone  expected,  too  early  for 
Cynthia's  peace  of  mind.  She  began  to  think  about  the 


TRANSFORMATION  431 

parting  when  she  saw  him  out  of  doors,  and  with  that 
came  a  curiosity  as  to  the  details  of  war,  which  he  could 
not  satisfy.  He  could  draw  her  sketches,  but  he  could 
not  explain. 

' '  The  interest  consists  in  just  doing  things.  There  are 
heaps  of  things  to  do.  I  haven 't  seen  enough  yet  to  talk 
about  it!" 

She  guessed  that  this  was  only  partly  true;  sighing, 
she  changed  the  subject.  He  need  not  have  been  afraid 
for  her!  "Did  you  ever  think  of  me?"  she  asked,  and 
then  she  blushed  and  the  dimples  came  roguishly,  and 
her  stars  danced  in  youthful  eyes.  The  answer  was 
plain  to  be  read  before  it  was  spoken,  and  Peter,  getting 
well,  began  again  to  make  love.  He  laughed  happily. 
"I'm  always  wanting  you,  dear!"  he  said.  "You  are 
never  very  long  out  of  my  thoughts ! ' ' 

"That's  right,"  approved  Cynthia,  gravely. 

"I  can  tell  you,  too,  sometimes  while  I've  been  train- 
ing, I've  longed  to  be  able  to  paint.  Of  course  I  can 
store  up  impressions,  but  it  isn't  the  same  thing.  I'm 
hungry  to  work,  sometimes!" 

"I  believe  soldiering  is  harder  for  an  artist  than  for 
anyone  else!"  exclaimed  the  girl. 

By  the  end  of  November  he  was  walking  firmly,  and 
was  allowed  to  join  his  wife  at  the  farmhouse.  Those 
were  tender  days,  to  be  smiled  over  afterwards  with 
tears;  the  deepest  and  sweetest  that  they  had  lived 
together,  days  of  bravery  and  winter  weather,  of  dear 
monotony  and  love  under  the  shadow  of  the  parting. 

She  went  up  to  London  to  see  him  off  by  the  one 
o'clock  war  train  from  Victoria  station.  Peter,  with 
a  group  of  men  from  his  regiment  who  had  been  on 
short  leave,  was  to  go  in  the  first  section  of  the  ex- 
press, which  was  in  reality  two  trains,  one  leaving  a  few 
minutes  before  the  other.  The  platform  was  packed  with 
people,  though  double  barriers  held  back  the  merely 
curious,  and  only  relatives  and  friends  were  allowed 
inside.  There  was  a  roaring  of  excited  laughter 
mingling  with  the  roaring  of  steam  from  the  engine, 
voices  tremulous  with  tears  called  jocose  farewells, 


432  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

officers'  wives  with  drawn  faces  chatted  with  their  hus- 
bands in  low  tones,  men  yelled  greetings  to  each  other, 
the  few  porters  bustled  to  and  fro.  Over  all  was  an  air 
of  gaiety,  of  good-natured  waggishness.  Then  the 
whistle  blew,  and  Cynthia  was  in  his  arms,  crushed  and 
clinging  and  still  brave. 

Passengers  bundled  into  the  carriages,  women  threw 
last  kisses,  children  were  set  down  hastily  with  puck- 
ered, uncertain  faces,  men  who  were  alone  turned  from 
the  windows,  fathers  called  admonition,  sons  waved  in 
silence,  husbands  drew  themselves  away  and  gazed, 
soldiers  and  still  more  soldiers  thronged  on  to  the 
carriage  steps  as  the  train  jerked  and  slid  on  with 
increasing  momentum.  Peter 's  face  was  passing ;  it  was 
going,  vanishing,  amid  a  noise  of  banging  doors  and 
rolling  cheers  from  the  train  and  a  feebler,  thinner  echo 
from  the  platform.  Umbrellas  and  hats  waved  high 
around  Cynthia.  They  obscured  the  view  and  he  was 
gone.  Soon  the  last  carriage  of  his  train  was  disap- 
pearing also. 

As  Cynthia  made  her  way  slowly  through  the  throng 
around  the  second  train  she  looked  neither  to  the  right 
hand  nor  to  the  left,  yet  somehow  people  made  room 
for  her.  Inside  the  barrier  was  an  old  lady  with  silver 
hair,  an  old  lady  in  black,  sitting  upright  in  a  wheeled 
chair,  behind  which  stood  an  aged  manservant  in  livery. 
Her  eyes  were  not  upon  the  crowd,  they  were  on  the 
past;  and  then  she  glanced  up  and  saw  the  girl  by 
her  chair.  "Is  it  gone?"  she  asked.  "Yes,"  replied 
Cynthia,  at  that  moment  jostled  by  a  drunken  woman. 
The  old  lady  leaned  forward  and  said  in  a  deep,  clear 
voice,  "I  have  lost  four  sons,  and  it  is  my  youngest  who 
has  gone  now.  My  dear,  I  will  pray  for  you. ' '  She  sat 
back  in  her  chair,  upright,  and  closed  her  eyes. 


XXXIII 

CYNTHIA  returned  to  Sussex.  She  felt  that  she  must 
be  alone  awhile. 

She  wandered  in  the  lanes  as  she  had  done  with  Peter, 
and  lingered  slowly  by  the  dear  farmyard  where  the 
pigs  talked  to  themselves  all  day  long.  Indoors,  Fire- 
log  murmured  contentedly  on  the  hearth ;  his  sap  smelt 
sweet.  And  she  walked  up  the  down,  and  hailed  Brother 
Sea,  clothed  in  shaggy  garments  in  the  distance.  Some- 
where out  beyond  was  Peter,  and  perhaps  he  marched, 
and  perhaps  he  fought,  or  perchance  he  bled.  The  breeze 
tore  at  her,  and  she  was  wrapped  about  in  noble  space 
under  a  grey,  swift  progress  of  clouds.  She  thought  she 
smelt  salt  in  the  wind  and  heard  the  thunder  of  cannon 
from  the  Channel;  in  imagination  she  listened  to  the 
lapping  of  the  water  against  the  black  hull  of  a  ship. 
One  moment  she  was  Britannia,  draped  in  the  Flag, 
defiant,  heroic;  the  next,  a  girl  anguishing  for  her 
lover,  who  was  fighting  hidden  behind  the  horizon  in 
smoke  and  flame. 

After  tea  she  climbed  the  down  again,  and  watched 
cloud  castles  pile  in  the  evening  sky,  peaceful  like 
dreams,  while  the  silver  moon  looked  over  a  world  lying 
hushed  and  still.  Mists  slowly  lined  the  valleys.  Dark- 
ness and  silence  settled  upon  the  landscape  like  closing 
wings. 


433 


XXXIV 

NEWS  of  the  bombardment  of  Scarborough  brought  a 
fuller  realisation  of  the  war  to  the  quiet  farmhouse. 
The  widow  woman  who  ruled  it  sent  her  eldest  son  to 
fight.  Even  Cynthia's  pulses  beat  faster  as  she  read, 
and  she  knew  that  she  understood  better  than  before, 
despising  her  weakness.  Her  husband  was  in  danger 
already;  how  could  her  comprehension  of  war's  horrors 
be  quickened?  But  it  was. 

So  it  was  also  by  her  visit  to  the  little  town  where  she 
and  Peter  had  worked,  which  was  within  a  morning's 
walk  from  the  farm.  She  went  to  lunch  with  a  friend, 
intending  to  return  by  train;  and  as  she  entered  the 
outskirts  of  the  place  she  saw  a  bend  of  the  river,  and 
the  line  of  willows  along  the  bank  and,  beyond,  the  high 
paling  of  the  bathing  enclosure.  In  memory  she  could 
see  within  it  the  little  platform  on  the  bole  of  a  gigantic 
willow,  the  plank  projecting  from  it  above  the  stream, 
and  the  steep  ladder  of  approach.  She  remembered  how 
on  one  occasion  when  she  came  from  the  undressing  hut 
she  had  found  a  number  of  young  girls  sitting  about, 
swimming  or  splashing  in  the  shallows,  all  of  them 
listening  to  a  slender  brunette  who  was  lounging  with 
an  air  of  saucy  confidence  on  the  diving-board  above  the 
smooth-flowing  water,  engaged  in  chaffing,  one  hand 
on  hip,  a  timid  bather  who  clung  to  the  bank.  Cynthia 
had  ascended  the  high,  rickety  ladder  and  waited  for  the 
girl  to  move  out  of  her  way.  ' '  Look  at  the  waterf unk ! ' ' 
cried  the  latter,  pointing  downward  with  her  bare  arm, 
and  seeing  Cynthia  step  on  to  the  board  she  dived,  with 
a  casual  grace  that  was  enchanting.  Cynthia  had  fol- 
lowed and  swimming  to  the  shallows  had  called  to  en- 
courage the  waterfunk,  who  was  not  so  young  as  her 

434 


TRANSFORMATION  435 

tormentor.  Eventually  the  girl  came  too,  and  she  and 
Cynthia  had  tried  to  teach  their  elder  to  swim.  Both 
of  these  people  lived  in  the  neighbourhood,  and  shortly 
after  Cynthia  left  the  place  the  younger  married  an 
officer  who  was  billeted  in  her  father's  house,  while  the 
other,  who  was  a  professional  nurse,  went  to  Belgium 
with  a  Red  Cross  party.  She  was  killed  a  month  later ; 
the  day  that  the  child  who  had  teased  her  became  a 
widow. 

Such  was  the  story  of  which  Cynthia  was  reminded, 
such  had  been  the  news  in  her  friend's  letter.  Before 
she  had  read  it  she  had  scarcely  believed,  in  her  heart  of 
hearts,  that  it  was  possible  Peter  should  be  taken  from 
her.  Somehow  this  worked  a  change,  and  henceforward 
her  fears  were  deeper-seated.  The  loss  of  Shaun  had  not 
brought  war  so  home  to  her. 

On  Christmas  Eve  she  travelled  to  Portman  Square 
to  rest  in  the  affection  of  her  own  people  and  of  Joyce 
until  the  New  Year,  when  the  flat  would  be  reopened. 
She  had  steadfastly  declined  to  make  a  longer  stay  with 
her  parents,  where  her  surroundings  would  not  recall 
such  memories  of  Peter.  Besides,  she  had  a  feeling 
that  her  duty  lay  in  his  dwelling.  Taking  care  of  her 
man 's  home  and  belongings  was  to  be  her  life  in  future. 


XXXV 

EARLY  on  Christinas  morning,  while  Cynthia  was  drink- 
ing tea  in  bed,  Peter  was  seated  in  a  dugout  belonging 
to  a  first-line  trench  named  "Fleet  Street,"  doing  his 
best  to  write  a  letter.  He  had  only  a  stub  of  a  pencil, 
nothing  on  which  to  support  his  notepaper  except  his 
knee,  and  was  prepared  to  be  called  to  arms  at  any 
moment.  From  the  right  came  the  sound  of  distant  sing- 
ing, from  the  left  that  of  an  occasional  rifle-shot.  We've 
had  a  worrying  night,  wrote  Peter. 

Trenches  have  grown  deeper  than  they  used  to  be,  he 
went  on,  laboriously.  The  bottoms  of  ours  are  lined 
with  'boards.  Thank  goodness;  because  I've  got  a  touch 
of  rheumatism  in  my  knee  and  am  going  a  bit  lame. 
Nothing  to  count.  He  stopped,  and  pictures  came  into 
his  mind.  He  saw  a  grey-green  German  tunic  rip  at  the 
point  of  his  bayonet  and  felt  the  resistance  of  flesh 
and  gristle  give  way  and  the  heavy  body  collapse 
towards  him,  twisting  the  rifle  sideways  in  his  hands. 
It  occurred  to  him  that  he  had  never  seen  the  man's 
face.  He  had  got  only  a  crack  on  the  knee  in  that 
charge ;  of  course  it  had  been  the  knee  damaged  before. 

He  remembered  what  a  time  the  regiment  had  had 
before  our  artillery  got  the  new  range,  at  least  before 
they  had  got  it  right!  Can't  tell  her  that,  he  thought. 
Then  there  was  the  charge  of  those  Territorial  chaps, 
and  the  glimpse  of  Semple  dodging  backwards  into  the 
enemy's  fire!  The  only  advantage  of  being  a  sniper 
was  that  you  had  field-glasses  and  did  see  something 
sometimes!  Peter  had  been  in  a  ruined  house,  which 
every  now  and  then  became  a  target  for  shells.  He 
had  been  there  two  days  and  the  telephone  officer  who 
occupied  the  basement  had  warned  him  to  turn  out  at 

436 


TRANSFORMATION  437 

noon  sharp  as  the  Huns  were  punctual  people.  Sure 
enough,  on  the  third  day  the  house  was  knocked  flat, 
absolutely  wiped  out,  by  a  salvo.  Can't  tell  her  that 
either,  or  about  Semple — if  it  was  he — running  back- 
wards into  machine-gun  fire  as  though  it  were  hail. 
Some  of  the  men  had  had  their  hands  over  their  eyes, 
and  God,  hadn't  they  gone  down!  Few  of  them  had 
got  there.  Wonder  if  old  Semple  were  one. 

Blotter  had  been  killed  in  England  in  some  acci- 
dent. /  haven't  a  scratch,  darling.  I  hope  Phyllis  will 
be  happy;  thanks  for  the  cutting  you  sent  about  the 
wedding.  My  love  to  Joyce  and  your  people.  Fancy 
Laurence  Man  getting  that  job  under  Government!  He 
always  had  brains  and  now  I  should  think  he  ought  to 
go  right  ahead.  I  feel  sorry  for  the  chap  in  a  way.  .  .  . 

At  this  moment  a  couple  of  R.A.M.C.  stretcher- 
bearers  made  their  appearance  round  an  angle  of  the 
communication  trench  down  which  Peter  was  looking. 
The  trench  was  particularly  deep  for  those  days,  so 
that  they  were  able  to  walk  without  stooping:  it  must 
have  crossed  what  had  once  been  the  side-walk  of  a 
street,  for  Peter  noticed  that  the  top  layer  was  formed 
of  paving-stones.  Against  these  grey  stones  the  two  heads, 
held  erect,  stood  out.  Peter's  glance  rested  upon  them 
idly;  they  had  halted  before  the  notice-board,  "The 
Strand,"  and  were  talking  together.  Then  he  staggered 
to  his  feet,  uttering  a  cry,  for  he  had  seen  Shaun! 

At  a  swift  pace  he  approached  the  two,  who  were 
staring.  "Shaun!"  he  called  in  a  low  voice — and  the 
man  on  whom  his  eyes  were  set  stepped  forward  and 
cursed  him  with  a  stream  of  the  foulest  oaths  and 

epithets.  "Who  do  you  take  me  for,  you  

fool?"  he  concluded  savagely,  scowling  with  a  fixed 
and  angry  defiance. 

Peter's  certainty — he  had  not  doubted — had  van- 
ished at  the  movement  of  the  man,  before  ever  he 
opened  his  lips.  He  had  lost  the  illusion  as  quickly 
as  it  had  come;  the  gesture  was  not  the  gesture  of 
Shaun.  He  listened  to  the  man's  curses,  wondering  at 
his  surly  and  distrustful  vehemence  and  examining 


438  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

what  was  certainly  a  strong  resemblance.  Features, 
height,  and  colouring  were  identical  with  Shaun's,  but 
the  eyes  were  smaller  and  closer  together  and  were 
dull.  Yes,  the  man's  hair  under  his  cap  was  sandy. 
"I  mistook  you  for  a  friend  of  mine  called  Shaun 
James,"  said  Peter,  civilly. 

"Come  on,  matey.  We're  in  the  wrong  shop  alto- 
gether," cried  the  other  private,  grinning  but  im- 
patient, and  he  pulled  at  his  comrade's  arm.  The 
latter 's  frown  relaxed,  and  he  said,  with  a  more  refined 
articulation  than  he  had  previously  used,  "Forgive  my 
patois!  No  harm  meant,"  turned  on  his  heel  and 
walked  quickly  away.  The  whole  incident  had  occupied 
only  a  few  seconds;  it  was  not  till  Peter  was  almost 
back  at  his  place  that  he  remembered  the  evening  of 
his  first  dinner-party,  his  meeting  with  Cynthia,  and 
how  Shaun  had  been  arrested  in  mistake  for  a  swell- 
mobsman.  Then  he  stopped  dead,  but  after  reflecting 
an  instant,  sighed,  sat  down,  and  did  his  best  to  forget 
what  had  happened. 

/  should  like  some  more  socks,  he  wrote.  No  cigarettes, 
thanks;  we  have  heaps.  I  have  been  thinking  about 
money.  Shall  we  agree  to  keep  ourselves  poor,  I  mean, 
if  ever  we  seem  to  be  growing  rich;  and  anyhow  always 
to  put  aside  money  to  give  to  people  in  memory  of 
old  Shaun?  You  know  what  I  mean.  Things  are 
awfully  real  out  here,  and  that  has  made  me  want  to 
help  people. 

At  this  point  Peter  was  interrupted  by  the  arrival  of 
a  corporal  who  was  collecting  a  burying-party.  Sleepers 
were  aroused,  spades  and  mattocks  procured,  and  to 
Peter's  surprise  the  corporal  led  the  way  over  the 
parapet  of  the  trench.  "Here  goes,"  he  thought  as 
he  followed,  "it's  a  new  idea  to  charge  the  enemy  with 
spades,"  and  he  had  just  time  to  wonder  whether  the 
non-com,  had  gone  mad  and  to  say  to  himself,  "We  shall 

be  able  to  dig  our  own  graves "  when  his  head 

rose  above  the  sandbags.  "Oh,  it's  a  truce!"  he  ex- 
claimed. 

"What  did  yer  think,  young  'un?"  asked  the  corpo- 


TRANSFORMATION  439 

ral.  ' '  Think  we  was  goin '  to  commit  sooicide  ?  Not  'arf . 
Now,  if  you  work  'ard  we  can  talk  to  them  chaps." 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  us?"  asked  one  of  the  privates 

who  had  been  asleep.  "Thought  I  was  a  

corpse. ' ' 

"Tell  you!"  retorted  the  corporal.  "You  should 
keep  your  eyes  and  ears  open  on  Christmas  Day.  We 
'ad  just  such  another  kind  o'  stand-easy  with  Brother 
Boer  fifteen  years  back,  s'elp  me!  What  were  you 
doin'  of,  young  'un,  not  to  notice  what  was  goin'  on?" 

"I  was  writing  to  my  wife,"  said  Peter. 

"Now  dig  away,  you  ;  order  is  to  bury  'em 

where  they  lie.  Lor',  here's  poor  old  Tom,  all  on 
top  of  a  norficer  by  the  look  of  him.  He's  'ad  his  last 
caffy  oly.*  Give  the  Boshes  their  orficer,  you  two! 
Carry  him  careful  over  the  barbed  wire.  He  was  the 
chap  that  was  spyin'.  Look  at  them  dancing!  Look 
at  'em!  Like  a  lot  of  performin'  animals.  That's  the 
piccolo  we  heard  last  night.  Now  get  on  with  it!" 

When  the  unpleasant  task  was  over  Peter  was  free  to 
satisfy  his  curiosity  in  regard  to  the  enemy.  He  was 
at  once  buttonholed  by  an  argumentative  person  who 
desired  to  prove  England's  responsibility  for  the  war. 
"You  are  an  instructed  man!"  said  the  German.  "I 
call  to  your  reason,  sir " 

"For  goodness'  sake,  don't  do  that!"  Peter  inter- 
rupted. "I  mean,  let's  talk  about  something  else." 

"I  rejoice  to  meet  a  man  of  instruction!"  said  the 
Hun,  drawing  Peter's  arm  in  his  and  leading  him  affec- 
tionately away.  "With  your  officers  I  must  not  speak. 
What  shall  we  speak  over,  then?  I  am  Saxon,  not 
Prussian.  I  hate  the  British  politik  which  drags  empty 
our  homes,  but  not  the  British  peoples.  If  you  would 
but  hear  to  reason  this  war  would  finish ! ' ' 

Cheek  his  talking  about  reason,  wrote  Peter  to  Cynthia 
later  in  the  day.  Wasn't  it?  Altogether  he  was  a 
patronising  sort  of  a  chap.  Still,  I  think  he  meant  to 
be  civil.  He  looked  about  forty,  because  of  his  stubby 
fair  beard  I  suppose,  but  said  he  was  twenty-seven  and 

»  Caf6  au  lait. 


440  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

a  doctor  of  philosophy  at  Leipzig.  I  was  glad  I  had 
shaved  and  washed.  He  gave  me  cigars  and  I  gave 
him  Punch  and  we  walked  up  and  down  arm  in  arm 
while  he  held  forth.  I  could  not  make  him  let  go  of 
my  arm  without  being  uncivil,  so  I  had  to  grin  and  bear 
it.  I  asked  him  something  about  the  Hymn  of  Hate  and 
he  recited  it.  He  translated  it  line  by  line,  but  I  did 
not  think  much  of  it.  In  German  it  is  a  spitting  noise. 

Peter  escaped  and  found  his  corporal  distributing  to 
the  enemy  copies  of  what  he  called  "The  Kayser's  Last 
Will  and  Testament!  Last  Will  and  Testament  of  the 
Kayser!"  "My  girl  sent  me  these,"  he  explained. 
"They  may  as  well  have  'em."  "Don't  you  start 
before  I'm  ready,"  he  told  the  manufacturers  of  a  foot- 
ball, which  was  something  woolly  stuffed  with  straw. 
"They  say  the  Tsar's  taken.  D'you  believe  that?"  he 
asked  Peter. 

"Not  a  bit.    Can  I  play  in  goal?    I'm  lame." 

"Where  you  like,  sonny.  Soccer  rules.  Goals  are 
the  two  Jack  Johnson  'oles.  Take  precious  good  care 
you  don't  fall " 

An  officer  with  a  tired  face  interrupted.  "You  must 
put  up  sticks  for  goalposts  and  play  on  a  short  field 
and  for  not  more  than  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  Then  knock 
off  and  report  to  me.  The  game  must  be  stopped  at 
once  if  there's  any  rough  play.  Spectators  must  keep 
within  their  own  barbed  wire.  These  chaps  won 't  under- 
stand the  offside  rule,  so  you'll  have  to  cut  that,  and 
tell  the  men  no  charging!  Keep  the  game  friendly." 

The  corporal  and  Peter  saluted.  The  officer  moved 
away.  "Our  chaps  is  lucky,"  said  the  corporal,  "as 
how  the  wire  entanglements  don't  meet  between  the 
trenches.  I  got  a  good  jar  of  preserved  peaches  off  them 
Huns.  Now  then,  boys!  ..." 

Play  began  in  the  most  energetic  fashion,  amid  a 
chorus  of  guttural  exclamations  from  the  Saxons  and 
our  men's  laughter  and  yells  of  advice  to  both  sides. 
"Go  it,  Binjy,"  they  howled  at  an  enormous  German 
with  a  very  small  blond  head,  who  was  lumbering 
towards  Peter  making  deliberate  and  ferocious  short 


TRANSFORMATION  441 

kicks  at  the  ball.  He  had  been  left  behind  in  the 
first  sudden  attack  upon  the  German  goal.  "Hoch!" 
he  yelled  deep-throated,  proceeding  in  his  painstaking 
fashion;  Peter  had  got  the  ball  away,  when  the  whole 
pack  of  English  and  Saxons  arriving  together,  three 
or  four  of  them  having  tripped  in  a  long  rut,  hurled 
him  and  Binjy  through  the  sticks  amid  cries  of  "Goal! 
Goal!  Bravo,  Binjy!" 

"What  d'jer  call  'im  Binjy  for?"  "Because  it  suits 
'im.  Buck  up,  you  lazy  swine!"  "You  won't  never 
play  for  Chelsea!"  rose  from  the  English  lines,  while 
the  Saxons  applauded  in  a  puzzled  way.  A  solitary  shell 
— it  was  the  first  of  the  morning — wailed  overhead,  and 
the  corporal,  rising  to  his  feet,  explained  politely :  ' '  Sie 

habe  ein  Goal  gewon,  thanks  to  that 'ole  in  the 

ground ! ' ' 

Peter  was  not  sorry  when  the  game  was  over.  He  had 
again  damaged  his  knee,  when  Binjy,  who  most  likely 
weighed  fifteen  stone,  had  fallen  on  top  of  him.  Accord- 
ingly, on  resuming  his  letter  in  the  afternoon  he  was  led 
to  take  up  once  more  the  subject  of  rheumatism,  and 
unconsciously  repeated  the  simple  statement  he  had 
made  in  the  morning,  /  am  a  bit  lame  owing  to  rheu- 
matism in  my  knee. 

I  am  glad  to  say  that  when  some  of  our  chaps  yelled 
out  "Waiter!"  the  others  shut  them  up,  he  wrote.  7 
suppose  all  will  be  quiet  now  until  midnight.  I  would 
sooner  not  fight  than  fight,  any  day.  Fighting  is  always 
beastly  until  one  gets  angry,  and  I'm  inclined  to  think 
this  will  make  it  beastlier  than  it  was  before.  It  has 
made  these  chaps  seem  real  somehow.  They  were  fright- 
fully eager  to  show  us  photographs  of  their  wives  and 
children,  and  our  chaps  lugged  out  pictures  of  their 
best  girls.  I  heard  a  subaltern  say  it  "wasn't  decent," 
and  that  more  or  less  expresses  what  I  felt.  And  yet  it 
was  touching.  God  bless  you,  my  darling.  Take  care 
of  yourself  and  give  my  love  to  the  parents. 

In  the  evening  fires  were  lighted  in  the  trenches,  and 
Peter,  who  was  on  sentry  duty,  watched  the  flickering 
lights  along  the  Saxon  front  continually  mounting, 


442  THE  JOYFUL  TEARS 

fighting  against  the  darkness  with  darting  swords  of 
flame,  and  constantly  dropping  back  defeated.  From 
beyond  came  the  sound  of  music,  of  Die  Wacht  am  Rhein 
sung  by  a  chorus  of  young  voices  wilfully  deepened  and 
hoarsened.  Then  a  trumpeter  blew  nobly,  so  that  the 
men  in  the  trench  behind  Peter  stopped  their  laughing 
and  talking  to  listen.  And  when  he  had  finished  they 
broke  out  into  While  Shepherds  watched  their  flocks 
~by  night.  Peter  and  the  other  sentries  joined  in;  he 
even  thought  an  echo  came  from  the  Saxon  line.  .  .  . 

The  last  long-drawn  harmony  died  away,  and  silence 
descended  upon  a  gentler  darkness.  As  the  voices  and 
the  laughter  began  again,  Peter  heard  a  man  say:  "I've 
'ad  many  a  copper  for  singin'  that  through,  when  I  was 
a  kid."  A  sergeant  on  his  rounds  came  by,  coughing, 
and  the  flare  of  the  Christmas  fires  went  up,  and  Peter 
peered  into  the  night.  He  felt  at  that  moment  as  though 
he  could  not  shoot,  could  never  kill  his  enemy  again. 
Each  twinkling  flame  was  beauty,  and  the  God  of  Love 
near. 

Now  a  stentorian  voice  was  hailing  across  the  space 
between  the  two  nations.  ' '  Englander ! "  it  bawled, 
"sing  Tipperara,  ef  you  pleese!"  "What-o!"  and 
"Hi!"  went  back  the  answering  shouts;  and  from 
behind  the  nearest  fire  a  steady  voice  called,  "Pass  the 
word  down,  sentries,  Tipperary!"  The  Colonel  moved 
forward  into  the  light  of  the  blaze.  "You  sing  it, 
Martin,"  he  said. 

The  tune  was  not  yet  old,  and  it  had  memories  for 
Peter.  His  heart  was  like  a  proud-stepping  charger: 
in  the  swing  of  the  chorus  he  heard  the  tramp  of  the 
feet  of  his  countrymen.  He  sang  with  blind  eyes,  pos- 
sessed. Martin  had  a  clear  tenor  voice,  and  the  roar  of 
the  chorus  answered  him  from  right  and  left,  from 
miles  on  either  side,  so  that,  long  after  he  had  ended, 
snatches  of  distant  song  were  caught  up  again  and 
died  away.  The  enemy  applauded  politely,  but  Peter 
detected — or  thought  that  he  detected — hesitation  in 
their  clapping,  and  rejoiced.  Exulting,  he  told  himself 
they  had  aroused  something  they  could  not  understand. 


XXXVI 

IT  was  Christmas  night,  and  Joyce  had  come  into 
Cynthia's  room  at  hair-brushing  time  for  confidences. 
She  was  sitting  in  her  pretty  dressing-gown  on  a  low 
stool  by  the  fire,  brushing  away  hard,  while  Cynthia, 
who  had  not  begun  to  undress  yet,  sat  in  a  big  chintz- 
covered  chair,  quietly  watching  her. 

"I'm  sixteen  now,"  said  Joyce,  who  had  guessed  her 
thoughts.  "I  expect  I  do  look  frightfully  changed!" 
She  let  her  brush  drop  on  the  hearthrug  and  picked  up 
the  comb  that  was  lying  ready  by  her  side. 

"You  look  more  grown-up " 

" — So  do  you,  you  darling!"  interrupted  Joyce.  "I 
do  believe  you're  lovelier  than  ever.  I  always  did  think 
you  perfectly  sweet  in  white !  Those  short,  loose  sleeves 
are  absolutely  top-hole!" 

"I  was  going  to  say  that,  though  you  are  taller, 
your  face  isn  't  changed.  But  it  is !  You  've  grown  like 
the  pictures  of  your  mother,  Joyce." 

"I  wish  Mother  would  come  home.  Fancy  Father 
getting  stuck  in  Egypt!  Isn't  it  horrid?" 

"I  wish  Peter  were  there,"  sighed  Cynthia,  bending 
forward  a  little. 

"Yes,  of  course.  I  wish  Father  could  be  there  and 
here  too.  Cynthia,  why  were  you  so  frightfully  keen 
that  Miss  Taliesin  should  be  asked  to-day  ?  I  heard  you 
talking  about  it  to  Aunt  Emmie." 

' '  Oh,  Joycie,  you  weren  't  listening ! ' ' 

"No,  no.  That's  all  I  heard.  I  was  passing  the 
library  when  you  two  were  coming  out.  Didn  't  you  see 
me?" 

"No." 

443 


444  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

"Well,  I  haven't  changed  into  a  long-eared  sneak. 
Honestly,  darling!" 

"No,  of  course  not.  Joycie,  your  hair  is  just  the  right 
length.  I  wish  mine  were  no  longer." 

"I  say!  Why,  ever?  I  only  wish  mine  came  right 
below  my  waist,  and  waved  naturally,  and  had  those 
glorious  golden  lights  in  it ! " 

"Yours  is  quite  pretty  enough,  dear,  and  you  don't 
have  such  a  bother  with  it.  You've  no  idea  what  a 
plague  mine  is  to  do — Marie  spoilt  me.  She  used  to 
do  it  in  ways  that  looked  very  careless  and  simple, 
but  they  weren't!  And  her  formal  styles  I  find  every 
bit  as  difficult.  Besides,  the  brushing  and  the  weight ! ' ' 

"Let  me  brush  it  for  you!  Oh,  Cynthia,  do  let  me 
undress  you!" 

"No,  Joycie  dear,  you're  tired.  Thank  you,  all  the 
same. ' ' 

"Do  let  me.  I  want  to  see  your  nice  underneath 
things.  May  I?  It's  you  who  are  tired,  and  I'll  brush 
you  frightfully  carefully!" 

"It's  very  sweet  of  you.  Which  dressing-gown  has 
Marie  put  out?  She  will  put  out  my  things,  although 
I  don't  let  her  do  anything  else  for  me.  I'm  learning 
to  look  after  myself,  and  I  don't  want  the  kind  woman 
to  spoil  me." 

"Light-blue  silk,  with  big  embroidered  birds.  Will 
it  be  warm  enough?" 

"Yes,  thanks,  dear.  If  you'll  undo  the  top  lace  at 
the  back!  There,  that's  it.  Thank  you.  These  ones 
do  slip  off  easily.  Now  watch  me  put  away  my  own 
evening  dress.  I'm  proud  of  it!" 

"You  ought  to  have  been  at  school  longer,"  said 
Joyce  wisely,  her  head  on  one  side.  "Then  it  would 
have  come  easier!" 

"Bather!  Now  the  dressing-gown.  You  are  a  dear. 
Joyce!" 

"You'd  better  have  shoes  and  stockings  off.  Here 
are  your  fur  slippers.  Didn't  Aunt  Emmie  want  Miss 
Taliesin,  then,  or  couldn't  she  come?"  Joyce  was 
stooping  at  Cynthia's  feet  and  had  let  her  hair  fall  over 


TRANSFORMATION  445 

her  face,   and   slipped   out  the   question  mumblingly. 

Cynthia  laughed.  ' '  Oh,  Joycie !  You  aren  't  going  to 
grow  like  That  One?" 

Joyce  tossed  back  her  hair.  "I  swear  I'm  not!"  she 
said,  anxiously.  "I'm  a  beast!  You're  quite  right  to 
warn  me." 

"I  didn't  say  you  were,  but  it  isn't  really  my  secret 
to  tell ! ' '  Lady  Bremner  had  answered  that  Alan  would 
never  alter  and  that  it  was  far  better  to  drop  the  con- 
nection. "Will  you  try  to  forget  what  you  heard?" 

"Righto,  I  will.  They  are  all  saying  'Righto'  at 
school,  but  a  boy  I  met  at  a  dance  said  it  had  quite 
gone  out!  He  said  girls'  slang  was  always  a  year  or 
two  behind  boys '  slang.  He  was  a  thoughtful  boy.  Am 
I  brushing  you  nicely?" 

"Beautifully." 

"We've  been  doing  a  lot  of  war- work  at  school  and  I 
believe  knitting  has  made  my  hand  lighter.  I'll  try  at 
billiards  to-morrow.  Oh,  That  One !  Her  wedding  was 
supposed  to  be  quiet,  but  she  told  'some  people'  when 
it  was  to  be  and  a  few  thousands  swarmed  in.  I  think 
she  might  have  asked  us,  but  I  suppose  we  were  too 
pretty.  Me,  what?  Well,  I  daresay  some  silly  person 
will  call  me  pretty,  some  day.  May  it  be  a  long  way  off, 
for  I  should  only  laugh  in  his  face.  I  heard  she  looked 
very  pleased  with  herself  and  he,  poor  thing,  with  her! 
He  was  in  his  Yeomanry  uniform,  of  course.  I  don't 
believe  for  a  second  they'll  send  him  out  to  the  front, 
he's  so  ancient.  Why,  she  admits  he's  over  forty!" 

Joyce  was  brushing  away  steadily  now  at  the  long, 
fair  tresses.  "I  hope  she'll  be  happy,"  said  Cynthia, 
thoughtfully.  "I  don't  see  why  she  shouldn't.  Joyce, 
I  'm  going  to  tell  you  something.  Did  you  notice  that  I 
went  out  by  myself  this  afternoon?" 

"I  generally  notice  things,"  remarked  Joyce.  "It's 
a  habit  of  mine." 

"I  went  to  see  Peter's  aunt,  who's  at  the  Windsor. 
She  wrote  and  asked  me  to  come,  and  as  she  was  all 
alone  I  felt  I  ought  to.  Not  that  I  was  eager.  I  might 
have  been,  because  she  was  really  kind.  I  think  she 


446  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

was  touched  by  Peter's  going,  and  she  wanted  to  know 
about  Mr.  James.  You  know  there  have  been  a  lot  of 
paragraphs  in  the  newspapers  about  him.  She  asked 
whether  the  lawyers  had  'presumed'  his  death  yet, 
and  if  so  whether  he  had  left  anything  to  Peter.  It 
sounds  horrid  of  her,  but  really  she  did  it  nicely  enough 
not  to  hurt.  I  almost  liked  her,  she  was  so  kind  and 
natural.  She  made  her  curiosity  seem  not  impertinent 
at  all.  And  it  wasn't,  for  when  she  found  out  that  we 
knew  without  lawyers  that  Shaun  had  left  everything  to 
Peter,  she  said,  what  do  you  think,  Joyce?  Why, 
that  she  admired  Shaun  so  much  that  she  had  left  him 
£200  a  year  in  her  will.  There  was  to  be  nothing  for 
Peter,  and  all  the  bulk  of  her  money  was  to  go  to  the 
National  Service  League  and  the  Navy  League.  I  was 
puzzled  why  she  told  me  and  surprised  rather,  and  tried 
to  comfort  her.  'The  newspapers  assume  the  worst 
and  so  do  the  solicitors  now,  I'm  told,'  I  said,  'but  he 
may  come  back. '  '  I  liked  what  he  did  for  your  husband, ' 
she  went  on.  'His  selection  of  the  Bath  firm  was  very 
ingenious.  He  had  an  ingenious  mind.  I'm  going  to 
secure  to  Peter  and  you  that  £200  a  year  as  soon  as  Mr. 
James's  death  is  legally  presumed  and  his  will  proved. 
You  shall  have  it  at  once.  I  have  always  expected  this 
war  and  made  my  investments  accordingly,  and  I  foresee 
that  I  am  going  to  double  my  present  income  in  spite 
of  the  taxes!'  What  do  you  think  of  that,  Joyce?  I 
haven't  even  told  Mummy  yet!" 

"All  right  for  you,  darling!  What  a  sportsman  the 
old  lady  must  be!" 

"That's  exactly  the  word,  I  think!  I  can't  believe 
she's  very  much  interested  in  us,  really.  She  doesn't 
want  Mummy  to  call  on  her  or  anything.  She  won't 
see  me  again." 

"You're  jolly  lucky,  aren't  you?" 

"I  don't  see  you  can  say  that  with  Peter  away," 
sighed  Cynthia.  "But  I  know  what  you  mean!  I'm 
afraid  of  it,  sometimes." 

"I'm  perfectly  blowed  with  thinking  how  lucky  you 
are!"  exclaimed  young  Joyce,  brush  in  air. 


TRANSFORMATION  447 

"Are  the  girls  saying  'Mowed,'  dear*  It's  not  very 
pretty!" 

"You  darling,  you  make  the  sweetest  grandmother! 
Now  leave  your  beautiful  hair  like  that.  It's  done  now, 
and  let  me  take  off  your  bracelets.  I  wish  I  could  think 
I  shall  ever  have  arms  like  yours.  They're  perfectly 
ripping !  Oh,  I  love  those  sapphires !  Who  gave  them  to 
you,  Cyn?" 

"Alan.  Years  ago.  Joycie,  you  don't  think  I  was 
heartless  about  Miss  Middleton  and  .  .  .  and  Shaun,  do 
you?  I'm  not." 

"I  must  nurse  this  lovely  smooth,  white,  firm  arm. 
Come  and  be  cuddled,  sweet  thing!  Heartless?  Rot, 
rot,  rot!  You  know  I'm  not  heartless  about  Mother. 
We  don't  talk  about  these  things !  That  is  what  bothers 
me  about  That  One.  She  always  will.  I  can't  think 
how  you  managed  to  pass  so  many  exams,  and  play 
lacrosse  and  cricket  well,  when  you  look  so  lovely,  you 
dear  thing.  By  the  way,  I'm  in  the  first  cricket  team 
this  year,  and  I'm  writing  a  novel.  I  do  want  Mother 
so !  I  hate  growing  up  without  a  mother,  and  sixteen  is 
growing  up.  Miss  Bradby  is  frightfully  nice ;  but  then 
what  is  a  headmistress?  So's  Aunt  Emmie  sweet, 
too.  .  .  .  Oh,  I  don 't  know.  .  .  .  You  're  the  nicest,  Mrs. 
Middleton.  It  was  darling  of  you  to  ask  me  to  stay 
with  you  at  the  flat!" 

Joyce  was  now  curled  up  at  Cynthia's  feet.  Cynthia 
was  leaning  forward  in  an  attitude  of  thought,  one  arm 
abandoned  to  her  worshipper,  the  other,  elbow  on  knee. 
She  let  herself  sink  back  in  the  deep  chair  slowly,  leaving 
Joyce  a  wrist  still,  and  settled  herself  luxuriously.  Thus 
the  white  mantelpiece  came  into  view  with  its  familiar 
photographs  and  flowers,  and  delicate  blue  china,  and 
above  it  she  looked  into  the  round  Venetian  mirror. 
It  was  the  room  of  her  girlhood,  little  altered  by  time, 
for  Lady  Bremner  had  wished  it  to  be  always  ready, 
and  Cynthia  had  transferred  only  a  few  of  her  posses- 
sions to  her  married  home.  It  was  still  a  nest  of 
flowered  chintzes ;  the  casement  hangings  were  still  gold ; 
most  of  the  pictures  were  the  same.  Another  Eve  hung 


448  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

in  the  place  of  the  old  one,  promoted.  Her  eyes  filled 
with  tears  as  she  thought  of  Shaun. 

"What  is  it  like  to  be  in  love  with  a  man?"  asked 
Joyce,  softly. 

Cynthia  looked  troubled.  "There's  a  kind  of  com- 
pleteness about  it,"  she  answered  vaguely.  "It  is  more 
than  oneself." 

Joyce's  sharp  little  face  became  wise.  "I  can  just 
begin  to  imagine  something  of  what  it  must  be." 

"It's  like  feeling  oneself  a  part  of  somebody." 

"Yes,  but  don't  you  hate  that  feeling  at  times,  and 
want  to  be  free?  I  think  I  should." 

"I  don't  inside,  ever.  My  heart  and  soul  know  I'm 
Peter's.  At  least,  that's  how  I  feel;  I  don't  say  every- 
one is  like  me." 

Joyce  laid  her  head  against  the  girl's  knee,  stroking 
it  gently  with  her  cheek.  "I  do  love  you,  Cynthia. 
Tell  me  what  it  is  like  to  look  forward  to  ...  you  know 
what!  Don't  start  so,  dearest!  Uncle  Everard  told 
me.  He  didn't  mean  to,  but  he  did.  Is  it  very,  very, 
very  heavenly?" 

"It's  .  .  .  nice." 

Joyce  glanced  up;  Cynthia  had  shaken  her  great 
cloud  of  hair  about  her,  and  was  blushing,  and  smiling  a 
little. 

"Ah,"  she  said,  "I  can't  guess  a  bit  what  that  will 
be  like !  Do  you  like  half-sleeves  on  dressing-gown  and 
nightdress  for  me,  Cyn?" 

"Yes  .  .  .  yes,  I  do.  I'm  terribly  frightened  some- 
times. I'm  afraid  but  I  won't  be  afraid,  if  you 
know  what  I  mean,  Joyce!  I'm  a  coward  about 
pain." 

"Is  there  pain?" 

"What,  didn't  you  know?  Often  it's  bad,  but  they 
can  give  you  chloroform  and  things." 

"I  should  hate  pain!" 

"Shaun  used  to  say  there's  nothing  worth  having  in 
the  world  that  doesn't  come  with  pain.  He  said  every- 
body knew  that." 

"Did  you  ever  care  for  Mr.  James,   Cynthia?  .  .  . 


TRANSFORMATION  449 

I'm  sorry,  I  oughtn't  to  have  asked  that,  I  don't  want 
to  be  like  Phyllis!" 

"No,  I  didn't,  but  I  was  very,  very  fond  of  him. 
He  taught  me  nearly  everything  I  know.  He  was  so 
kind.  He  never  laughed  at  me." 

"Why  should  he?  You  were  always  clever  at  school. 
He  was  decent  to  me,  too,  very  decent.  I  howled  when 
the  news  came.  I  was  just  one  mass  of  tears  like  a  kid. " 

Cynthia  did  not  answer,  and  Joyce,  rising  to  her 
knees,  hugged  her,  saying,  "You  have  a  lot  of  sorrows 
and  anxieties,  after  all,  you  darling  thing !  Talk  to  me 
about  Peter.  I  want  to  hear  everything  about  him." 

Cynthia  shook  her  head.  "I  can't.  Not  to-night. 
Peter 's  too  much  to  me  to  be  talked  about. ' ' 

' '  I  hope  you  see  that  I  'm  wearing  the  brooch  you  and 
he  gave  me,  even  on  my  nightdress." 

"I  did." 

' '  I  can 't  wear  Aunt  Emmie 's  hat  as  well,  or  I  would ! 
I've  had  a  glorious  Christmas.  Darling,  I  always  pray 
for  Peter.  You  don't  think  that  cheek,  do  you?  I 
mean  well!" 

Cynthia  kissed  her,  impulsively  and  tenderly. 

' '  I  think  I  'm  a  little  bit  in  love  with  him ! ' '  remarked 
Joyce,  getting  to  her  feet.  ' '  Since  he  went  to  the  war — 
not  enough  to  hurt.  I  believe  he's  making  you  a 
religious  girl,  Cynthia.  I  noticed  you  in  church  this 
morning.  Is  he?"  Cynthia  nodded.  "He  is  an 
awfully  good  sort,  and  I  don't  think  it  will  do  you  any 
harm.  It  has  my  approval!"  She  blew  Cynthia  a 
kiss  and  turned  to  the  door.  "Good-bye,  dear.  You 
must  go  to  bed  now.  Good-night,  little  Cynthia!" 

"Good-night,  young  Joyce!" 


XXXVII 

AFTER  that  Christmas  Peter  suffered  continually  from 
rheumatism  and  for  a  time  was  constantly  on  the  sick- 
list  for  periods  of  a  few  days,  not  because  of  the  pain, 
which  was  slight,  but  by  reason  of  lameness  consequent 
on  fluid  developing  in  his  weak  knee.  No  doubt  he 
would  have  been  wise  to  have  attempted  to  obtain  long 
leave ;  indeed  had  he  not  been  morbidly  afraid  of  being 
taken  for  a  malingerer  he  might  have  escaped  much 
subsequent  suffering.  As  it  was,  his  knee  grew  worse 
and  finally  he  came  back  to  clerical  work  again,  first 
under  the  Town  Commandant  of  the  place  where  his 
regiment  was  billeted,  and  then,  being  left  behind  when 
they  went  next  into  the  trenches,  he  was  transferred  as 
clerk  to  the  headquarters  of  a  divisional  staff.  There 
Peter  remained  most  unwillingly  for  several  months, 
busied  until  all  hours  of  the  night  with  the  kind  of 
labour  that  he  particularly  disliked,  and  conscious  that 
the  state  of  his  knee,  which  perforce  remained  bent  under 
the  table  at  which  he  wrote,  was  showing  little  or  no  im- 
provement. When  the  weather  was  wet,  which  it  usually 
was,  the  slightest  over-fatigue  made  him  as  bad  as  ever, 
and  when  it  was  fine  his  progress  was  disappointingly 
slow.  He  seemed  to  be  settling  down  into  permanent 
lameness. 

Then  his  knee  recovered  sufficiently  to  allow  him  to 
accompany  a  staff  officer  as  orderly  in  an  important 
mission  which  took  them  down  the  length  of  the  French 
lines,  and  after  that  he  returned  to  his  regiment,  where 
he  found  chiefly  strangers.  Peter,  however,  did  not  stay 
long  with  the  regiment.  The  first  time  he  got  thoroughly 
soaked  through  his  rheumatism  returned  with  con- 
siderably increased  severity.  He  spent  two  days,  racked 
with  pain  and  then  was  sent  back  to  hospital ;  after  three 

450 


TRANSFORMATION  451 

weeks  there  he  found  himself  again  at  headquarters, 
limping  to  and  from  duty  on  a  couple  of  sticks. 

"Are  you  fit  for  duty?"  the  General  wanted  to  know, 
the  first  time  he  noticed  him. 

"Only  for  this,  I'm  afraid,  sir,"  answered  Peter, 
flushing. 

"There's  no  'only'  about  it,  my  lad.  I  asked  for 
you;  they  tell  me  you  are  the  best  clerk  we've  had. 
Sit  down  and  get  on  with  your  work. ' '  Peter  knew  that 
he  ought  to  be  grateful  for  a  place  of  comparative  safety 
and  the  chance  to  keep  dry,  but  he  could  not  succeed  in 
feeling  it.  The  impression  was  strong  in  his  mind  that 
he  ought  to  rejoin  the  regiment.  He  thought  that  he 
did  not  wish  to  go,  and  so  he  wanted  to  be  made  to; 
these  people  seemed  to  be  robbing  him  of  his  self-respect. 

Though  Peter  had  not  time  to  meditate  about  his 
development  he  was  conscious  in  a  dim  kind  of  a  way 
that  he  was  growing  up.  War  had  acquired  a  meaning 
for  him.  It  had  interest  from  its  effect  upon  oneself. 
It  was  no  longer  a  mere  matter  of  noise  and  fatigue  and 
stenches  and  horrors  and  incessant  preoccupation  with 
details  and  of  unexpectedly  finding  oneself  alive  and  very 
tired.  It  was  something  which  simplified  one  and  built 
one  up ;  when  it  did  not  knock  one  down.  Like  poverty 
and  most  other  evils  it  seemed  capable  of  being  spiritu- 
ally constructive  in  certain  cases.  Peter  supposed 
vaguely  that  this  was  what  it  was  for.  He  saw  a  good 
coming  to  England  from  all  this  carnage,  an  improved 
comprehension  of  life  on  the  part  of  those  who  should 
survive.  Was  it  worth  it?  If  God  thought  it  was,  and 
evidently  He  did,  that  was  enough  for  Peter  Middleton. 

And  then  he  went  on  a  second  journey  with  the  staff 
officer,  sticking  to  his  work  in  spite  of  increasing  and 
terrible  pain,  and  was  left  behind  in  a  French  hospital 
with  rheumatic  fever;  during  the  recovery  from  which 
he  had  much  space  for  reflection  and  many  things  be- 
came clear.  Some  of  them  had  before  been  subcon- 
sciously apprehended,  for  they  rose  in  his  mind  side 
by  side  with  some  vivid  memory  of  war.  '  *  I  don 't  recol- 
lect thinking  of  anything  when  that  happened!"  he 


452  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

would  say  to  himself,  "yet  I  suppose  I  must  have  done," 
for  the  image  persisted.  Other  conclusions  he  arrived 
at  as  a  result  of  hard  and  sustained  thinking,  of  which 
in  his  weak  state  he  found  himself  unexpectedly  capable. 
Indeed  the  motionlessness  induced  a  dreamy  clarity  of 
mind  in  which  a  train  of  thought  passed  before  him  with 
the  orderliness  of  an  arranged  procession.  He  had  the 
power  to  arrange,  and  to  keep  his  richly  laden  thoughts 
moving  in  steady  progress  across  the  stage  of  his  mind 
while  he  sat  apart  in  a  dark  place  and  watched  the  shin- 
ing pageant.  And  this  was  not  feverishness,  but  the 
opposite  of  it;  it  was  manhood  attained,  the  first  con- 
sciousness of  intellectual  maturity.  Shaun  had  said  that 
there  would  come  a  time  when  he  would  be  satisfied 
about  them,  would  lose  interest,  when  their  development 
could  at  last  be  safely  predicted.  Peter  felt  that  that 
time  had  come  now,  knew  it  in  a  modest,  firm  way  dif- 
ferent from  the  certainty  with  which  he  had  thought 
before  the  war  that  his  development  was  already  over. 
Therefore  he  did  not  now  fear  death.  What  had  come 
to  him  indeed  was  the  knowledge  of  his  own  faith,  the 
simple  faith  of  his  fathers.  And  he  was  no  longer  afraid 
of  the  effect  of  his  death  upon  Cynthia.  There  was  a 
time  when  his  sudden  going  might  have  embittered 
and  spoiled  her,  but  he  knew,  although  she  had  never 
said  it,  that  that  time  was  now  gone ;  through  daily 
facing  the  possibility  of  the  agony  she  had  grown  strong 
enough  to  conquer  it,  should  it  come.  Though  he  was 
no  longer  afraid  of  death,  love  of  life  was  very  power- 
ful in  him,  and  he  prayed  for  both  their  sakes  that 
death  might  pass  him  by. 

There  was  a  picture  very  clear  before  Peter,  of  a 
distant,  lurid  sky,  blood-red,  strangling  the  moon,  above 
a  horizon  of  white  flashes;  while  below  the  spectator, 
at  the  foot  of  a  hill  lit  by  the  ghastly  glare,  was  a  huge 
gasometer  on  the  opposite  side  of  a  pink  and  curving 
river.  On  the  left,  round  the  side  of  the  hill,  clustered 
the  lights  of  the  ancient  city  upon  whose  defences  the 
shells  were  yelling  and  shrieking  and  bursting  into  those 
fierce,  white-hot  explosions.  Inhabitants  of  the  place 


TRANSFORMATION  453 

formed  little  groups  of  shadow  upon  the  hill,  around 
Peter,  above  and  below:  sometimes  they  moaned,  as  a 
shell  shot  clear  with  a  tail  like  a  rocket  and  for  an 
instant,  bursting,  appeared  before  their  dazzled  eyes  as 
a  mace  crushing  the  dear  land  of  France;  sometimes 
a  dog  howled  pitifully  in  the  intervals  of  the  ponderous 
and  stunning  uproar,  which  drifting  from  the  horizon 
on  the  wings  of  a  cold  wind  made  the  earth  resound  and 
appeared  to  account  for  the  shivering  of  the  stars.  This 
picture  was  connected  in  Peter's  mind  with  something 
too  insignificant  to  have  been  present  consciously  when 
he  beheld  it.  He  associated  it  with  his  own  condemna- 
tion of  his  secret  marriage.  The  lights  in  the  indigo  sky 
had  told  him  that  he  had  done  wrong:  and  perhaps  the 
strepitant  clamour  had  confused  him  so  that  he  could 
remember  now  nothing  but  a  disorder  of  thought  which 
gradually  resolved  itself  under  the  cool  influence  of  grey 
hospital  walls.  He  would  not  blame  Shaun.  That  was 
right,  and  he  was  young  enough  still  not  to  be  willing  to 
accuse  himself ;  however  he  did  so  honestly,  perceiving  as 
his  best  excuse  the  effect  of  the  Great  Company 's  service 
upon  his  character;  an  effect  which  from  a  greater 
distance  and  viewed  in  perspective  still  stood  out  as 
wholly  damnable.  That  Cynthia  had  consented  was  a 
proof  of  the  pervasive  influence  of  Shaun.  How  Shaun 
had  loved  subtlety,  and  with  what  a  genius  neverthe- 
less had  he  retained  his  grip  upon  simplicity! 

That  tender,  bright  intelligence  was  gone  from  the 
world ;  and  Peter  was  not  clever  enough  to  estimate 
with  what  singular  delicacy  his  fate  and  Cynthia's  had 
been  weighed  in  the  balance  before  Shaun  had  decided 
to  help  them.  He  never  realised,  what  Shaun  had  fore- 
seen, that  in  escaping  extreme  poverty  they  had  not 
only  avoided  a  great  danger  but  also  been  deprived 
of  one  of  the  great  widening  and  deepening  influences  of 
life.  The  war  had  replaced  it,  and  Peter  did  not  per- 
ceive the  omission.  Shaun  had  assumed  the  part  of  a 
god,  weighing  good  against  good  and  evil  against  evil. 
He  had  played  with  their  lives  as  a  skilful  card-player 
finesses,  taking  every  risk,  including  that  greatest  of 


454  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

all,  the  blame  of  dead  Doris,  who  had  always  trod  in 
straightforward  ways  and  walked  with  him  now  the 
paths  of  asphodel,  .  .  .  Once  in  his  delirium  Peter 
glimpsed  her  vanishing  with  Shaun  along  a  yellow  mead. 
They  fled  with  unearthly  swiftness  hand  in  hand  towards 
the  places  of  the  Blest,  and  the  golden  mead  lay  empty 
behind  them  and  shone  in  glorious  sunshine. 

And  there  were  waking  pictures  in  Peter's  mind  of 
places  and  battle  scenes  in  which  had  grown  his  knowl- 
edge of  his  love  of  Cynthia.  One  was  strange,  the 
approach  to  a  railway  bridge  in  a  French  town  up  a  wet 
and  deserted  street.  Sentries  paced  overhead,  and  a 
spider 's  web  of  wire  filled  the  arch,  outlined  against  the 
sky  beyond.  Somehow  she  had  seemed  close,  then; 
and  she  had  done  so  through  the  bitter  fight  for  a  village 
that  looked  not  worth  the  conflict  as  the  flames  blew  high 
from  its  ruined  houses.  The  regiment  had  had  the  end 
of  it  and  the  spiked  helmets  had  given  back.  Peter  had 
emerged  unwounded  from  the  carnage  with  a  mouth 
that  was  furry  and  tasted  of  copper.  He  thought  that 
he  had  turned  into  a  mechanism  that  fired  and  thrust. 
Surely  his  arm  and  head  and  shoulders  had  become  a 
part  of  his  rifle !  It  seemed  as  though  he  were  spitting 
bullets  from  his  mouth ;  so  furious  and  unremitting  had 
his  attention  been  to  the  business  of  slaughter,  while 
all  the  time  Cynthia  had  been  very  close. 

He  remembered  a  swift  river  flowing  through  a  wind- 
ing, tree-clad  valley.  A  procession  of  tall  pines  marched 
with  the  road  along  the  further  bank  to  a  farmhouse, 
bright  under  the  first  sun  of  spring;  before  whose  walls 
the  river  widened  and  shallowed  into  a  ford.  Up  high 
the  sky  was  blue  above  the  gently  waving  tree-tops, 
and  the  water  rippled  with  a  pleasant  sound  of  eager- 
ness and  briskness  over  the  pebbles,  and  that  was  the 
only  thing  audible  save  the  rustle  and  soft  murmur  of 
the  forest.  Peter  had  forgotten  the  car  in  which  he  sat, 
forgotten  his  officer  poring  over  the  map  with  the 
chauffeur,  forgotten  the  grizzled  French  sergeant  at  his 
side.  By  an  illusion  of  the  imagination.  Cynthia  was 


TRANSFORMATION  455 

standing  near,  enjoying  and  loving  the  beauty  with  him. 
Tall,  gracious  Cynthia!  She  had  tossed  her  chin,  he 
knew,  although  she  was  slightly  behind  him,  and  with 
half-closed  eyes  and  happy,  smiling  lips  was  sniffing 
the  forest  scents.  Her  hands  were  hanging  clenched. 
She  was  hatless  and  the  sunlight  was  playing  with  her 
hair.  .  .  .  And  then  a  jingling  and  dull  clattering  had 
sounded  from  behind  the  farmhouse.  The  French 
sergeant  had  leaned  forward  and  placed  a  hand  on 
Peter 's  knee,  as  the  head  of  a  column  of  hussars  emerged 
from  the  road  round  the  great  barn,  and  trotted  easily 
towards  the  ford.  As  they  approached  a  trumpeter 
blew  an  echoing  call,  and  they  spread  out  fanwise  till 
right  along  the  stream  the  men  were  watering  their 
horses,  which  stood  knee-deep  with  extended  necks.  The 
sergeant  removed  his  hand.  "C'est  ~bea/w  maintenant!" 
he  said,  in  a  tone  of  satisfaction. 

But  the  picture  that  Peter  loved  most,  his  Vision 
Splendid,  had  come  on  a  misty  day  in  Champagne  when 
he  looked  down  on  a  line  of  marching  troops  slanting 
through  vineyards  under  telegraph  wires  half  a  mile 
away  across  the  slope  of  a  hill.  They  were  scarcely 
visible  in  the  swirls  of  mist  and  rain,  they  dragged  like 
tired  men,  and  the  little,  distant  town  from  which  they 
were  heading  was  of  the  barest  ugliness.  And  yet, 
while  his  eyes  were  straining  to  make  out  a  factory 
chimney,  there  Peter  had  known  suddenly  that  Cynthia 
was  given  him  by  God  to  watch  over;  for  the  first  time 
in  his  life  he  had  been  conscious  of  himself  as  a  part 
of  a  divine  purpose  that  he  could  understand.  He 
thrilled  and  shook  with  the  greatness  of  the  revelation : 
no  thought  of  its  simplicity  was  with  him.  He  held  the 
Key  of  the  World,  new  and  shining  and  golden.  He 
panted,  catching  his  breath  at  the  ineffable  strangeness 
of  the  knowledge  that  God  is  Love.  Because  of  the  love 
of  the  spirit  which  he  had  for  her,  he  could  never  lose 
her,  for  that  was  of  God.  And  heaven  would  be  all 
love;  and  on  earth,  how  crystal  clear  it  was!  'Little 
children,  love  one  another!'  That  was  the  law  and  the 
gospels.  It  was  Beauty,  more  than  that  it  was  Truth! 


456  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

Those  three  were  a  trinity  in  unity,  and  the  greatest  of 
the  three  was  Love.  And  the  mist  whirled  grey  before 
Peter's  eyes,  and  his  knapsack  weighed  like  lead  upon 
his  back  and  pain  racked  his  knee;  while  he  lay  still 
and  quiet  now  the  memory  of  these  things  returned, 
following  upon  the  memory  of  the  glory,  even  as  the  mist 
had  closed  in  upon  the  landscape.  But  if  the  glory  was 
dimmed,  the  knowledge  of  it  remained.  Faith  was  brave 
in  him  like  a  banner. 

It  was  to  Shaun  James  that  he  owed  Cynthia,  under 
God.  It  was  to  him  that  he  owed  everything!  Dear 
old  Shaun !  His  heart  yearned  for  the  friend  whom  he 
could  not  realise  he  had  outgrown.  He  thought  of  him 
very  humbly,  as  a  boy  does  of  his  father.  And  again 
Peter  meditated  that  last  letter,  in  which  he  had  said 
they  were  the  Future  of  England.  He  puzzled  over  it. 
Could  Shaun  have  been  thinking  of  the  child  ?  He  must 
have  meant  more  than  that.  He  had  not  even  known 
that  there  would  be  a  child,  a  thing  still  scarcely  credi- 
ble by  Peter  himself,  who  had  a  swift  vision  of  Cynthia 
wrapped  about  in  a  silver  veil,  a  thing  very  holy,  to  be 
worshipped  on  the  knees  of  the  spirit. 

The  Future  of  England!  With  whom  did  it  rest? 
Would  it  lie  in  the  hands  of  a  class  of  truer  gentlemen, 
made  comradely  by  battle  ?  did  it  depend  upon  a  deeper 
and  kinder  comprehension  of  man  by  master  and  master 
by  man  ?  Or  was  Shaun  thinking  of  marriages  of  love  ? 
Perhaps  he  meant  that  the  future  lay  with  modest, 
simple  people  generally,  for  Peter  had  heard  him  apply 
those  two  adjectives  to  Cynthia  and  himself.  Modest? 
Yes,  Peter  supposed  he  was  modest,  since  he  could  not 
see  that  he  possessed  any  virtues  in  particular — which 
he  must  do  or  Cynthia  would  not  have  cared  for  him ; 
and  he  had  been  ^told  by  lots  of  people  that  he  was 
simple,  some  of  wfiom,  like  Shaun,  had  intended  it  for 
a  compliment.  "A  mixture  of  simplicity  and  meaning 
business  is  usually  attractive, ' '  had  said  The  Master,  ' '  I 
wish  to  heaven  I  could  speak  the  English  language  prop- 
erly! No,  you  need  not  be  surprised  that  you  make 


TRANSFORMATION  457 

friends  wherever  you  go. ' '  Yet  Peter  had  continued  to 
be  surprised;  he  thought  now  with  gratitude  of  the 
wonderful  manner  in  which  people  had  gone  out  of 
their  way  to  be  decent  to  him.  His  old  sergeant,  for 
example,  the  General  and  his  staff,  many  peasants,  a  few 
townsmen  here  and  there,  on  whom  he  had  been  billeted, 
surgeons,  nurses  .  .  .  heaps  of  people !  One  nurse  had 
said  that  he  wasn't  a  bit  like  an  artist,  which  was  a 
puzzle  to  Peter,  who  felt  more  of  an  artist  than  ever 
and  was  confident  of  doing  better  work — if  he  ever  got 
back.  He  must  do  better,  because  his  backbone  had 
stiffened.  He  was  conscious  of  inherited  firmness  of 
character.  His  father  was  strong  in  him.  He  had  won- 
dered how,  although  he  had  lived  in  dreams  out  of 
wartime,  in  wartime  the  grim  necessity  of  holding  him- 
self in  had  left  him  cool.  That  was  his  father's,  too. 
He  wondered  whether  feeling  one's  ancestral  virtues 
coming  is  always  a  sign  of  having  passed  the  stormy 
period  of  youth ;  for  he  knew  that  he  had  left  it  behind. 
What  had  he  got  from  War?  His  manhood,  religion, 
power  to  sacrifice  self  to  a  greater  extent  and  with  more 
simplicity.  Well  then,  was  that  what  England  was 
getting?  Did  Shaun  mean  that?  Peter  continued  puz- 
zled, as  still  much  of  the  parable  was  hid  from  him. 
Shaun  had  meant  most  of  those  things,  and  yet  more; 
for  the  simple  gentleman  who  is  lover  and  artist  as  well 
had  seemed  to  him  the  greatest  thing  upon  earth,  and 
in  the  creative  artist  without  a  volatile  temperament  he 
had  recognised  the  salt  of  it.  Peter  was  over-modest  to 
understand  wholly;  in  his  inmost  thoughts  he  attached 
less  importance  to  his  art  than  Shaun  did.  He  put  his 
artist  side  last,  while  Shaun  had  foreseen  Peter  the 
practical  man  and  leader  of  men  by  reason  of  his  per- 
ception of  Beauty. 


XXXVIII 

"LET  us  then  not  commit  follies!  Is  it  that  you  wish 
of  your  own  heart  to  go  back  to  these  trenches?  Is 
your  preference  personal,  my  brave  boy?"  inquired  the 
head  of  the  French  hospital. 

"No,  my  Colonel,"  replied  Peter,  honestly. 
"You  have  common  sense,  it  appears!  Soeur  Beatrice 
tells  me  that  all  love  the  Englishman;  perhaps  she  in- 
cludes herself  in  the  'all,'  who  knows?  And  I  have 
enjoyed  our  conversations.  Your  accent  is  truly 
Parisian,  my  friend,  although  there  lacks  something  in 
the  grammar.  A  little  something,  is  it  not  so?  You 
are  married  ? ' ' 

'Yes,  my  Colonel." 

'Children?" 

'Not  yet,  my  Colonel." 

'But  soon,  perhaps?" 

'Yes,  my  Colonel." 

'  Ah !  It  is  in  my  mind,  then,  to  do  you  a  good  turn. 
You  shall  go  to  England  and  you  shall  take  from  me  a 
letter  to  your  War  Office.  You  had  heard  my  name 
before  you  came  here  ? ' ' 

Peter  had  not,  but  he  knew  now  that  the  name  was 
famous:  "Yes,  my  Colonel." 

"Good,  my  boy!  You  lied  with  courtesy,  and  I 
thank  you.  It  is  my  vanity  to  be  celebrated.  You 
will  find  that  my  letter  will  carry  you  to  England. 
When  you  get  there  you  must  take  care  of  yourself, 
for  you  are  not  beyond  a  cure.  You  need  rest,  you  need 
baths,  you  need  more  rest,  you  must  pay  attention  to 
the  heart.  But  if  you  commit  follies  you  will  be  lame 
throughout  your  life,  which  also  may  be  short.  Bon 
voyage!" 

Peter  left  the  same  afternoon  and  arrived  at  Paris  in 

458 


TRANSFORMATION  459 

the  evening,  utterly  exhausted;  he  was  too  fatigued  to 
write  to  Cynthia.  And  next  morning  he  overslept 
himself  and  only  caught  his  train  at  the  Gare  du  Nord 
because  it  was  an  hour  late  in  starting.  In  the  midst 
of  a  chorus  of  cheers  it  drew  back  to  the  platform  to 
receive  him.  He  was  tall,  pale,  in  khaki,  and  walked 
with  a  stick,  which  was  sufficient  to  arouse  the  voluble 
sympathies  of  the  French  crowd ;  he  longed  to  call  out 
to  them  how  he  was  no  hero,  only  an  unfortunate  victim 
of  rheumatism;  but  that  would  have  been  ungracious, 
more  especially  to  the  officials  who  had  waved  back  the 
express,  so  he  was  forced  to  put  up  with  his  ovation  and 
relieve  himself  by  explaining  to  the  occupants  of  the 
carriage.  They,  however,  murmured  to  each  other  senti- 
ments about  the  modesty  of  true  valour  until  his  cheeks 
burned  and  tears  of  humiliation  filled  his  eyes,  and 
then,  ceasing  to  make  the  effort  to  respond  to  their  kind- 
ness, he  lay  back  in  the  corner  they  had  given  him  and 
pretended  to  sleep. 

The  train  rattled  and  jogged  out  of  the  Paris  suburbs 
into  green  country.  Buds  were  bursting  in  the  hedges 
and  the  blue  sky  spoke  of  peace ;  but  Peter  was  racking 
his  brains  to  remember  when  he  had  last  written  to 
Cynthia.  The  information  perpetually  evaded  his  mem- 
ory, slipping  round  a  corner  of  his  mind  at  the  moment 
when  he  appeared  certain  to  secure  it.  Had  he  said  that 
he  hoped  to  come  home?  As  a  matter  of  fact  he  had 
scarcely  ventured  to  hope,  but  the  impression  was  strong 
in  him  that  he  had  said  it  nevertheless ;  if  so,  a  telegram 
would  be  all  that  was  needed  to  prepare  her.  She 
certainly  must  not  come  to  meet  him,  as  it  could  not 
be  very  long  before  that  took  place  which  was  too  won- 
derful for  him  to  think  of.  Also  he  could  not  tell  pre- 
cisely what  was  going  to  happen  to  him,  until  he  had 
been  before  a  Medical  Board  in  London.  They  might 
send  him  to  Harrogate  or  to  Droitwich ;  the  French  doc- 
tor had  mentioned  Droitwich.  He  might  even  be  turned 
back  at  Dieppe  and  sent  to  some  spa  in  France.  It  would 
be  better  not  to  telegraph  till  he  reached  England. 

When  had  he  last  heard  from  Cynthia?    That  was  a 


460  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

still  more  difficult  question  to  answer,  for  delirium  stood 
between.  It  was  before  he  had  gone  to  hospital;  it 
must  have  been  five  weeks  ago!  But  then,  there  had 
come  a  card  from  Lady  Bremner,  during  the  time  that 
he  was  laid  up,  saying  that  she  was  all  right.  He  re- 
membered reading,  Cynthia  is  well.  Do  not  be  anxious 
about  her.  He  supposed  that  this  card  must  have  been 
forwarded  from  headquarters,  and  why  had  no  more 
letters  come  through?  He  had  worried  about  that  be- 
fore, but  there  was  some  answer  to  it.  Headquarters 
must  have  forgotten  him;  after  all  it  was  understand- 
able, since  he  had  been  in  a  French  hospital,  a  couple  of 
hundred  miles  away  from  the  British  lines.  One  occa- 
sionally missed  letters  when  one  was  in  an  English 

hospital.     Surely,  though !  yes,  of  course!    He  had 

written  as  soon  as  he  was  able  to  hold  a  pen ;  evidently 
he  must  have  omitted  his  address.  He  was  too  tired 
to  remember  what  he  had  done  or  had  not  done. 

He  must  have  slept,  for  it  seemed  that  only  five 
minutes  had  passed  when  Rouen  darted  in  and  out  of  his 
vision  amid  the  roar  of  tunnels.  "That  place  is  like 
Chatham  grown  beautiful,"  he  said  to  himself,  and 
then  began  to  worry  about  the  letters  again.  It  was 
pleasant  to  feel  that  there  was  no  reason  why  he  should 
not  worry,  that  in  front  lay  rest  for  a  time.  Indeed 
the  right  to  plague  himself  by  idle  speculation  appeared 
in  the  guise  of  a  luxury;  it  helped  him  to  realise  that 
he  was  free,  that  the  stress  and  strain  of  active  service 
lay  behind  him,  being  left  farther  in  the  rear  each  mo- 
ment by  the  rattling  train.  Presently  the  train  stopped, 
and  he  glanced  idly  out  and  saw  green  grass  growing 
in  a  side  track,  and  then  an  express  rushed  by.  He  had 
always  destroyed  her  letters  as  soon  as  read:  was  that 
wise?  Better  than  their  being  found  by  strangers,  per- 
haps by  Germans.  He  had  been  a  bad  correspondent.  Cyn- 
thia had  encouraged  him  to  be,  by  her  understanding  of 
the  difficulties  that  stood  in  his  way.  She  had  spoilt  him. 
She  had  appeared  always — nearly  always — serene  and  con- 
fident: now  that  he  was  returning  to  her  he  wondered 
how  much  of  this  had  been  pretence.  He  blamed  himself. 


TRANSFORMATION  461 

In  Dieppe  there  were  formalities  to  be  gone  through 
that  wasted  the  greater  portion  of  the  day.  When 
Peter  at  length  obtained  his  pass  he  was  ordered  to  cross 
in  a  hospital  ship  which  was  leaving  at  dawn.  This 
meant  more  long  hours  of  darkness  in  France,  another 
wearisome  night  before  he  could  attain  to  home  and  rest. 
He  had  been  approaching  these  in  imagination  and  sud- 
denly they  had  departed  to  a  very  far  distance;  the 
slight  disappointment  of  this  delay  was  the  hardest  thing 
which  he  had  yet  had  to  endure.  It  overpowered  him 
and  he  spent  the  evening  in  a  state  of  wretchedness 
utterly  disproportionate  to  the  occasion,  his  impatience 
growing  with  every  minute  that  passed  until  he  made 
himself  feverish,  while  the  discovery  that  he  was  short 
of  money  did  not  conduce  to  calm  him.  He  had  received 
no  pay  since  being  in  hospital  and  would  have  been  left 
without  a  'sou'  for  the  journey,  had  not  Soeur  Beatrice 
insisted  on  being  his  banker. 

Peter  was  in  luck.  His  finances  were  now  repaired  by 
a  medical  officer,  a  stout  brisk  little  Surgeon-captain, 
called  Gwiney,  who  by  chance  overheard  his  name 
and  immediately  claimed  acquaintanceship ;  it  tran- 
spired that  he  was  a  friend  of  the  Bremners,  an  immense 
admirer  of  Cynthia.  Peter  dimly  remembered  meeting 
his  wife  at  a  dinner-party  in  Portman  Square,  and  again 
one  day  when  he  had  been  out  with  Cynthia,  but  of  the 
little  man  himself  he  retained  no  recollection,  which 
mattered  not  the  least  since  Gwiney  did  the  remember- 
ing for  two,  proved  the  soul  of  good-nature,  and  was 
able  to  obtain  for  him  an  advance  on  account  of  back 
pay.  At  last  Peter  got  to  bed,  though  not  to  sleep. 
He  turned  and  tossed  until  it  was  time  to  rise  and  go 
on  board. 

With  the  morning  light,  Cynthia  seemed  closer  and 
his  need  of  her  greater  still.  He  fairly  ached  for  her 
arms  and  the  pillow  of  her  breast;  he  was  very  weary, 
and  he  could  see  her  eyes  above  him,  looking  down  into 
his.  As  the  coast  of  France  faded  from  his  sight  in  a 
drizzle  of  mist,  before  he  went  below,  for  the  first  time 
he  felt  anxious  about  her  silence,  which  struck  him  as 


462  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

strange  and  ominous.  The  explanations  which  had  satis- 
fied him  hitherto  appeared  terribly  insufficient.  He  be- 
gan to  tremble.  He  became  possessed  by  a  nerve-racking 
alarm.  He  shivered  and  shook,  and  had  hardly  strength 
enough  to  put  one  foot  in  front  of  the  other. 

This  condition  of  collapse,  due  in  part  to  fatigue  and 
weakness,  partly  to  his  apprehensions  on  her  behalf, 
lasted  throughout  the  voyage.  Over  and  over  again  he 
tried  to  calculate  when  his  child  should  be  born.  Over 
and  over  again  he  was  baffled,  because  Cynthia  had  been 
intentionally  vague,  not  wishing  him  to  be  uneasy  about 
her  when  the  time  came.  She  had  mentioned  some- 
thing about  June,  he  recalled.  But  he  could  not  forget 
that  she  was  young  and  inexperienced,  perhaps  careless. 
She  might  be  wrong.  It  might  be  the  end  of  May,  and 
the  middle  of  the  month  was  already  past.  The  horrible 
idea  assailed  him  that  his  agony  resulted  from  an 
intuitive  sympathy  with  hers.  The  picture  of  her,  dying, 
with  white  face  and  clammy  brow  and  pitiful,  distorted 
smile,  sprang  into  his  brain  and  stayed  there.  He  could 
see  the  pillow  and  her  long  hair  streaming  above  it,  and 
the  agitation  of  her  hair  caused  by  her  tossing  head,  and 
the  rail  of  the  bed  behind;  it  was  bright  brass  against 
pale-blue  hangings.  .  .  .  By  a  tremendous  effort  he  dis- 
missed the  picture  from  his  mind,  and  it  revived  when  he 
went  up  on  deck  again,  and  danced  between  him  and  the 
tossing  waves  and  the  black  outline  of  a  destroyer  on  the 
rim  of  a  sodden  sky;  until  pelt,  down  came  the  rain, 
and  a  vexed  nurse  caught  sight  of  him  and  drove  him 
below.  There,  after  a  while,  he  found  work  to  do. 

But  the  vision  returned  in  the  train  as  he  was  speeding 
smoothly  towards  London.  The  bustle  of  landing,  the 
activity  necessary  to  procure  a  speedy  departure,  the 
concentration  of  will  required  to  deal  with  officials  and 
the  relief  of  dispatching  telegrams,  had  banished  it ;  now 
he  sat  listening  to  the  kind-hearted  chatter  of  busy- 
bodies,  and  saw.  "When  they  left  him  alone  he  lay  back 
with  closed  eyes  and  saw  more  vividly.  He  staggered 
in  to  the  dining-car  to  lunch,  and  the  vision  was  above 
his  plate;  he  stared  out  of  the  window,  and  her  hair 


TRANSFORMATION  463 

streamed  with  the  hurrying  hills.  Yet  his  wits  had  not 
failed  him  through  the  formalities  on  the  quay  and  at 
the  station ;  which  he  was  glad  to  remember,  as  it  made 
him  the  more  confident  of  the  discretion  of  his  telegrams. 
No,  they  could  not  do  her  harm!  In  the  one  to  the 
flat  he  had  said,  Back  safe  Must  go  War  Office  first  Wire 
care  P.O.  Charing  Cross  you  are  well,  and  to  Lady 
Bremner  he  had  telegraphed,  Back  safe  Tell  Cynthia 
Arrive  home  to-night.  As  he  read  them  in  memory  the 
vision  formed  itself  out  of  the  words. 

He  presented  the  French  doctor 's  letters  in  Whitehall. 
A  stern-faced,  white-haired  man  received  him  with 
solemn  kindness  and  gave  curt  but  detailed  instruction 
with  regard  to  baths  and  cures.  Peter  listened  with 
amazement,  as  he  seemed  to  contemplate  giving  in- 
definitely extended  leave.  Peter  had  hoped  for  a  couple 
of  months,  but — 

"There  will  be  no  difficulty  about  your  discharge," 
said  the  surgeon. 

' '  My  discharge ! ' '  gasped  Peter. 

"Your  discharge!"  repeated  the  other  sharply. 
"To  retain  you  in  the  Service  would  be  to  ruin  your 
health  without  benefit  to  the  country.  You  will  appear 
before  a  Medical  Board  to-morrow  at  eleven." 

"Very  good,  sir!"  said  Peter. 

"You  will  be  able  to  find  other  ways  of  being  useful. 
Your  rheumatism  will  respond  to  some  such  treatment 
as  I  have  indicated.  I  am  afraid  that  the  trouble  in  the 
knee  will  be  liable  to  recur;  even  with  the  greatest  care 
you  are  likely  to  be  not  immune  from  periods  of  slight 
lameness.  However  I  gather  from  this  letter" — he 
glanced  at  the  paper  in  his  hand — "that  you  are  an 
artist  by  profession,  so  that  will  scarcely  matter  to  you 
as  much  as  it  might  to  others.  When  painting  out  of 
doors  you  will  do  well  always  to  be  on  your  guard 
against  damp.  However,  your  medical  attendant  will 
advise  you  further  on  these  points,  so  I  will  bid  you 
good  afternoon."  He  rose  as  he  spoke.  "To-morrow  at 
eleven,  Private  Middleton.  In  the  room  below." 

Peter  was  dismissed,  and  wandered  out  into  the  open 


464  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

air  with  his  thoughts  in  a  whirl.  Somehow  it  never  had 
occurred  to  him  that  he  might  be  given  his  discharge. 
He  could  not  deny  his  relief.  He  did  not  attempt  to 
deny  it;  he  was  conscious  of  a  passion  of  rejoicing.  Yet 
he  knew  he  would  have  tried  to  get  back,  he  knew  he 
would  have  made  the  best  of  his  case  to  the  Medical 
Board,  and  he  was  thankful  to  the  man  who  had  put 
this  out  of  his  power  with  the  most  gracious  and  skilful 
tact. 

He  found  himself  gazing  into  the  window  of  the  A.B.C. 
which  presents  a  narrow  front  to  the  pavement  at  the 
top  of  Whitehall.  Charing  Cross  Post  Office  was  close, 
but  the  hour  was  half  past  five  and  he  had  not  eaten 
since  noon.  In  his  exhausted  state  he  dared  not  go 
there  to  face  either  joy  or  sorrow.  He  felt  that  he  could 
not,  unless  the  noise  of  the  traffic  were  to  cease  and  the 
people  to  move  out  of  the  streets  and  leave  him  a  solitude 
in  which  he  might  approach.  After  a  cup  of  tea  he  grew 
stronger,  though  not  strong  enough  to  bear  the  awful 
shock  with  which  he  heard  that  there  was  nothing  for 
him.  It  seemed  to  spin  him  round,  like  a  blow  on  the 
side  of  the  head.  But  the  clerk's  unconcerned  face 
showed  that  he  had  not  moved.  "Thank  you,"  said 
Peter,  hurrying  out  of  the  building.  He  hailed  a  taxi 
and  drove,  with  beating  heart,  to  the  flat. 

A  little  consideration  should  have  told  him  that 
Cynthia  was  probably  with  her  mother,  and  when  in 
Pall  Mall  this  did  occur  to  him  he  immediately  con- 
cluded that  his  telegram  would  have  been  repeated  to 
Portman  Square.  It  was  small  relief,  therefore,  to  find 
the  flat  closed ;  and  all  his  fears  were  redoubled  by  the 
statement  of  the  girl  in  the  shop  below  that  the  lady 
had  gone  away  ill  some  weeks  before.  He  stammered 
out,  "Was  it — was  it  a  birth?  Wh- where  did  she  go 
to?,"  The  girl  who  was  a  stranger  to  Peter  stared, 
offended.  "I  don't  know  nothin'  about  it,"  she  declared 
primly,  turning  away.  "The  servants  'ave  gone  now, 
and  the  place  is  closed.  That's  all  I  know!"  The 
obvious  thing  was  to  go  on  to  Portman  Square.  As  the 
taxi  swayed  and  leaped,  Peter  wondered  whether  he 


TRANSFORMATION  465 

would  ever  believe  in  God  again,  if  that  had  happened 
which  might  have  happened.  He  listened  to  himself 
asking  the  question  in  a  voice  that  was  like  his  and 
was  not  his,  yet  knew  that  he  uttered  no  word  aloud. 
Something  said  to  him  that  she  was  dead ;  then  his  faith 
swung  clear  and  true  like  the  beat  of  a  pendulum. 
"God  is!  God  is!"  "Then  she's  not  dead,"  he  said 
internally;  "she's  alive!"  "But  she  may  be  alive, 
being  dead, ' '  he  rapidly  added ;  this  time  he  groaned 
aloud  and  felt  himself  growing  cold  and  numb.  He 
shuddered,  and  "Perhaps  she's  near  me  now!"  he 
thought,  looking  eagerly  about.  He  sank  against  the 
cushions  and  closed  his  eyes. 

Portman  Square.  The  flight  of  steps.  The  familiar 
door.  The  familiar  bell.  The  familiar  short  moment  of 
waiting;  and  then  the  opening  of  the  big,  green  door. 
"Is  Lady  Bremner  in?"  he  asked  the  maid,  his  courage 
failing  him  at  the  last  moment. 

"She's  out,  sir!"  answered  the  maid,  who  recognised 
him,  and  she  looked  a  trifle  surprised.  "Mrs.  Middleton 
is  in  the  garden,"  she  continued  in  a  natural  tone. 
"Will  you  go  through,  sir?" 

He  dropped  his  purse  in  the  attempt  to  give  it  to  her 
while  hurrying  by,  and  called  to  her  to  pay  the  man. 
He  knew  only  that  something  was  coming  for  which  he 
had  long  waited.  Change  was  in  the  air.  Had  not  a 
change  happened?  Was  she  not  safe?  And  then  he 
was  upon  the  verandah  steps,  looking  at  a  girl  sitting, 
with  her  back  turned,  under  a  tree  at  the  end  of  the 
garden.  An  apple-tree  glowing  with  blossom.  Her  hair 
was  uncovered  and  showed  fair  with  soft  tendrils 
curling;  and  the  descending  sun  shone  full  upon  her. 
reddening  the  burnished  hue  of  her  hair,  deepening  the 
pink  of  the  blaze  of  colour  above  her,  bathing  the  picture 
in  a  tender  mist  of  powdered  gold  so  that  it  took  a 
magic  beauty  of  quiet  and  peace.  And  she  was  stoop- 
ing gently  over  some  burden. 

He  walked  across  a  lawn  pied  with  daisies  and  he 
hardly  knew  how  he  moved.  It  seemed  that  he  stole 
through  the  air  as  in  a  dream,  yet  he  noticed  that  the 


466  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

borders  were  ragged  with  something  of  a  country  wild- 
ness,  and  the  peach-tree  on  the  wall  was  untrimmed,  and 
the  flowers  in  the  parterres  grew  rank  and  thick.  And 
he  knew  that  this  girl  was  Cynthia  his  wife,  but  the 
knowledge  meant  nothing  to  him.  There  was  a  strange- 
ness about  her  that  he  could  not  fathom.  The  details  of 
her  attire  were  more  vivid  than  herself.  She  was  a 
white-skinned  beauty  in  a  pink-embroidered  summer 
gown,  and  the  skirt  of  it  was  striped  with  pink.  The 
collar  of  the  bodice  was  folded  back  and  the  bodice  it- 
self was  white  and  shaped  like  a  jumper,  resting  upon 
the  outside  of  her  skirt.  He  saw  the  shadows  that  he 
would  draw  to  show  where  it  clung  to  the  girl 's  slender 
waist.  And  then  suddenly  she  rose  and  turned  and 
faced  the  sunlight  and  gazed  at  him.  First  he  saw  the 
white  lovely  column  of  her  throat  and  below  it  the 
pointed  opening  of  her  blouse,  beneath  which  was  a 
black  velvet  flower  that  was  like  a  caress  on  the  fair- 
ness of  her  skin.  He  did  not  look  at  her  face,  although 
he  was  aware  of  deep  and  starry  eyes,  all  startled,  and 
overjoyed  lips  just  parting,  for  there  in  her  arms  was 
a  living  babe,  upreaching  with  rosy  crumpled  hands. 
The  baby  cooed  and  Peter  stared,  while  the  sunlight 
leaping  above  the  mother's  head  left  its  splendour  in 
her  face.  The  sun  had  hidden  himself  below  the  roof- 
tops ;  for  a  moment  the  pink  glory  of  blossom  shone  in 
his  last  rays,  which  then  mounted  heavenward.  But 
the  garden  remained  full  of  warmth. 

Ah!  .  .  .  Ah!  ...  It  was  coming:  joy  rose  in  him 
like  a  cry.  Cynthia!  She  was  stepping  towards  him 
with  a  little  rush.  During  an  infinitesimal  instant  the 
beautiful  girl  was  there  as  Cynthia,  both  the  identities 
existing  in  his  consciousness  side  by  side.  Then  she  was 
gone  and  Cynthia  alone  was  left.  He  was  holding  her, 
calling  her  Dear  and  Starry  and  Sweet  and  His  Wife. 
She  had  a  hand  on  his  shoulder,  stroking  him,  her  other 
arm  encircled  the  infant.  ''He's  yours!"  she  babbled, 
and  laughed  and  cried  with  happiness.  "Oh,  my  Peter 
come  back  again !  Didn  't  you  know  ?  Hadn  't  you 
heard?  Peter,  Peter,  I  love  you  so!" 


TRANSFORMATION  467 

"Ours!"  cried  Peter.  He  snatched  at  the  bundle. 
She  resigned  it  to  him  fearlessly. 

' '  Don 't  crush  him ! ' '  she  said.  ' '  He 's  very,  very  little 
yet." 

Peter  stared  down  at  the  tiny,  still  face  with  the 
closed  eyelids,  which  opened  slowly  and  gave  him  a 
glance  of  heavenly  blue,  and  then  drooped  again.  "I 
understand  this!"  he  said,  in  a  tone  of  surprise.  "I 
don't  need  to  be  taught  how  to  be  a  father.  And  how 
different  it  is!  ...  But  Darling,  why  didn't  I  hear? 
When  was  he  born?" 

"Three  weeks  ago,  on  the  second  of  May.  Mummy 
wrote  letters,  and  postcards." 

"I  got  one!  After.  But  it  was  addressed  to  the 
regiment  or  to  headquarters — wasn  't  it  ? " 

"You  did  not  give  the  hospital  address  until  your 
last  letter,  Peter." 

"I  never  got  any  letters  after  that!" 

"We  wrote." 

"Then  they  never  fetched  up!  I've  been  scared,  but 
that's  all  done.  Cynthia,  I'm  home  for  good.  I've  got 
my  discharge!" 

"Peter!"  The  cry  told  him  how  she  had  suffered, 
revealed  depths. 

"Yes,"  he  said.     "For  good." 

"Peter,  what  a  day!  How  lovely  it  all  is." 

"Take  him,  Starriest.  I  want  to  sit  down.  I'm  tired. 
Can 't  you  lay  him  down  ?  I  want  to  hold  you. ' ' 

' '  He  must  go  in, "  declared  Cynthia.  Her  pretty  tone 
of  responsibility  sounded  familiar:  it  was  one  of  the 
inflections  of  her  voice  that  he  loved  most.  Side  by 
side,  the  young  father  and  mother  walked  slowly  into 
the  house,  where  all  was  quiet;  Lady  Bremner  had  not 
yet  returned.  Cynthia  rang,  and  gave  the  baby  to  a 
nurse.  Then  she  passed  on  with  Peter  into  the  library, 
into  a  pearly  dusk  and  glimmer  of  diffused  reflections. 
She  drew  a  curtain,  and  looked  at  the  east  flushed  with 
rosy  light.  She  spoke  in  a  soft  voice. 

"That's  the  promise  of  a  new  dawn  for  England  after 
the  darkness  which  is  to  come." 


468  THE  JOYFUL  YEARS 

Then  she  came  to  Peter  and  held  his  hands,  asking 
many  things  about  himself,  the  little  personal  questions 
inspired  by  tender  curiosity,  which  are  so  sweet  to 
recollect  in  after-years.  His  health,  his  journey,  whether 
he  would  take  something  to  eat,  his  clothes;  common- 
place topics  that  add  depth  and  poignancy  to  the  remem- 
brance of  such  a  moment,  of  its  exchange  of  looks  of 
love  and  understanding  and  thankfulness,  of  its  joy 
that  would  otherwise  be  over-great  to  be  apprehended. 
Similar  trifles  had  been  a  torture  to  Shaun  James. 
Cynthia  thought  of  Shaun,  and  they  were  sad.  They 
clasped  each  other's  hands,  tight,  tight.  Their  eyes 
implored  each  other  never  to  go  away  and  leave  one 
of  them  desolate.  In  that  interchange  they  passed  into 
each  other's  souls,  and  recognised  there  submission  to 
the  will  of  God.  And  both  became  conscious  of  fresh 
power. 

"I  never  told  you!"  said  Cynthia  impulsively.  "I 
never  answered  you  when  you  asked  me  about  money,1 
whether  we  should  live  up  to  our  income,  in  that  letter 
which  you  wrote  at  Christmas,  Peter.  I  wouldn't  until 
I'd  tested  myself.  And  truly  I'm  not  as  extravagant 
and  selfish  as  I  was.  I  can  promise  now!  I  always 
felt  that  it  was  better  to  stay  poor  and  help  people,  and 
it's  in  me  now  to  do  it,  thanks  to  you  and  Shaun." 

He  would  have  protested,  had  he  not  known  that  she 
was  really  thanking  God. 

Later,  as  she  was  moving  in  the  dusk  to  the  switch, 
he  tried  to  tell  her,  "I've  not  been  much  use  to  my 

country "  but  she  interrupted  him,  crying,  "That's 

not  true,  my  Peter!"  She  flooded  the  room  with  light, 
and  stood  for  a  moment  there  motionless,  beautiful  and 
.kind.  "England  needs  us  all,"  she  comforted. 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000  036  656     7 


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